The Mask and Mirror
by Tara1189
Summary: How many years since first I saw you and dreamed of you… those long nights when our voices in union rivalled those of heaven… oh, that we could have been thus forever…
1. Aftermath

**Author's note: Chapter one has finally undergone an overdue and much needed rewrite, as it was posted well over a year before any subsequent chapters appeared (and at a time when I had no idea where this story was headed).**

* * *

**The Mask and Mirror**

The sun was too bright, blinding. It pierced his vision with concentrated white fire. The scorched ground was hot beneath his feet, searing through boots caked with dust. He narrowed his eyes; the glaring divide between hard blue sky and desert blurring slightly. In the distance, he could see twisted trees, craggy black branches arching outward in gnarled arms, standing black against the horizon. Smudges of taupe dunes distracted the eye from the blaze of sun-reflecting sand. The scene stretched before him, infinite and forbidding, lonely and desolate.

A place as bleak and barren as his heart.

He had expected to feel some emotion at this last, bitter revelation, but there was nothing but a terrible emptiness that seemed detached and not a part of himself.

He raised a hand to shield his eyes, saw where the skin had become calloused and hardened, and he wondered how it had come to this.

_This was never what I wanted._

The view wavered and swam before his gaze in a mirage of heat. He closed his eyes against rising tears.

He remembered it all.

* * *

**PART I**

**Paris, 1881**

Chapter 1

Raoul was seated listlessly in the carriage, watching the Parisian streets roll past with disinterested eyes. Rain trickled down the glass in threads of silver, blurring the world outside to one that was grey and desolate, a world wholly disconnected from himself. He studied his slightly misted reflection in the window and was partly relieved by what he saw, though also slightly perturbed. The cloud-blue eyes, fair hair and determined uplift of the chin were the same as ever; no lines had as yet manifested themselves in his features to betray the severe emotional strain he had undergone in recent months.

He lightly rested his fingertips against the cold glass, feeling it rattle slightly in its frame. The rain was beating against the brougham roof with a dull and steady rhythm, heightening the sense of weary lassitude spreading through his body. He didn't have the energy to do anything. He wanted to sit in this carriage forever. He wanted to sleep and never wake up. Physically he was exhausted, but his overwrought mind would allow him no rest.

Raoul had always been fortunate, yes; his life had been one of relative ease and comfort, more indeed than most people could boast of. But recently it seemed as though fate, God, whatever you wished to call it, was gradually destabilising his once tranquil existence. He had never been overtly religious – oh, he attended Mass and considered himself a dutiful Christian, but he wasn't devout in the way someone like Christine was. But then he had always been too practical-minded and grounded in the real world to spend much time on devotions to the hereafter.

_Perhaps I'm being punished_._ Is this supposed to be my epiphany?_

The Vicomte smiled, ironically. He had seen what could happen to someone who believed wholly in the invisible and the elusive, believed it to the extent that all practicality was thrown aside in a pursuit of shadows and mirrors. He had seen the dangers inherent in such thinking, and how it ultimately lead to tragedy.

_I'm not Christine, _he thought_. I don't put my faith in illusions. _

But still he kept going over and over it in his mind, the scenes that had passed between himself and Christine over the last few weeks. A bleak feeling of something like remorse struck through him. That he should have done something different. He had done too much… he hadn't done enough…

And then came a wave of bitterness.

Why was he dwelling on it when it was done, and why was he blaming himself when it quite possibly wasn't even his fault at all?

Where had it all gone wrong?

* * *

_He couldn't bring himself to think to closely on the night following the performance of _Don Juan_. He had only a dim memory of pulling Christine from the boat and stumbling along passageways, half-blinded by the overwhelming need to find some way out of the infernal labyrinth. All around them the passages echoed with the blood cries of the incensed crowd, eager for retribution, and he certainly couldn't blame them. His hand was locked on Christine's wrist as he pulled her along after him, her breathless remarks falling on deaf ears. It was only when he felt her fingers prising his hand from her that he stopped and turned to face her._

"_Raoul!" she gasped, "Raoul! Stop!"_

_His mouth opened automatically to make a disbelieving retort when he paused a moment to take in her appearance. Her dark curls hung in damp locks over her bare shoulders; tearstains glinted on cheeks that were as pale as death. He inwardly shuddered at the awful heartbroken expression in her wide eyes. She was shivering violently and wrapped her arms around herself in an effort to still the trembling of her body._

"_Christine!" he said with real remorse, and put his arms around her almost hesitantly, as though expecting her to resist. But she submitted wordlessly, still with the same blank, miserable look on her face. _

"_I'm sorry," he murmured, fingers threading through her hair. "I just want to get you away from here. You'll catch a chill…" He would have offered her his jacket; only it had been lost somewhere along the tunnels. He was dressed only in a thin shirt and the searing cold was absolute. His bones seemed to be gradually turning to ice._

_Christine looked up at him, her mouth trembling. "What will they do to him?" she whispered wretchedly. "Oh Raoul, did we do the right thing?"_

"_Of course we did," he said firmly, even as he swayed on his feet. He was in shock, feverish, and wanted only to rest for a moment, but knew if he did that he would probably die of cold. And he was beginning to feel dreadfully afraid for Christine. She had barely spoken at all, and seemed careless of what became of her. Of course, he hadn't expected a great show of gratitude when he rescued her, but it was unsettling to look into her eyes and see nothing. No relief, no thanks – not anything. But then the mute appeal in her expression when she had asked about Erik… Why did she care so intensely about what happened to him? Raoul was still holding out on the hope that Erik was six feet underwater by now with a bullet lodged in his back. His only regret would be that he wasn't the one to do it. But it wasn't much good telling Christine that._

"_Come on." His voice was torn with pain and weariness as he took hold of her hands and led her along, more gently now. "I'll take you back to the Chateau, you can go to bed, have something to eat, whatever you want."_

_She nodded vacantly and Raoul could tell by her face she was beyond caring. She kept looking back over her shoulder, leaving it to him to guide her over the uneven stone floors, most of them awash with water. He tried to remind himself what she'd been through – there was no knowing what might have happened to her before he arrived. _

_To Raoul, those dark tunnels seemed to go on forever: an eternity of cold and terror and fever. He measured the distance by his heartbeats. At every step he expected to pitch forward into the partially frozen water, but some burning inner force was compelling him onward, even while his body was numbed and half-dead with cold. He hastened Christine along at a faster pace however, the coolly detached and rational part of his brain very aware of the questionable stability of the building. It would be a bitter irony indeed to escape Erik, only to be killed by falling masonry._

_It could have been hours or years before he finally recognised the entrance to the Rue Scribe. He was so concerned with ushering Christine away into a place of safety; he had not noticed whether or not their departure was observed. She was still shuddering with cold in the icy February night; the snowflakes that fell did not even melt when coming into contact with her skin. Raoul was little better. He staggered against the curb and almost fell, the blood beating thickly in his ears. With his remaining energy, he hailed a passing brougham, and stammered out instructions to take them to the de Chagny estate. In the carriage with Christine leaning against him, he slid down the seat._

I can rest now, _was his last conscious thought. _It's over.

_It wasn't, of course. It seemed the whole of Paris was in uproar. A police investigation was launched, fire fighting squads were sent to salvage what they could of the burning building, the newspapers went wild over the event – it didn't matter whether what they published was fact or fiction, so long as it sold. Monsieurs Firman and André were up in arms, declaring they would sue the Opera Ghost if he were found, and failing that, the former managers Pologny and Debienne for failing to check building safety regulations. It would seem that the Vicomte and Christine had been observed entering a carriage that drove swiftly from the scene. Gossip spread like wildfire: rumours were circulating that the whole event was a stunt planned by the Vicomte de Chagny, so he could run away with his lover Christine Daaé without the knowledge of his brother with whom he had quarrelled over the beautiful singer. Others said her disappearance was due to the managers, who, threatened by Carlotta's increasing jealousy agreed that she should be removed from the Opera Populaire. Other whispers spoke of the Opera Ghost, before being laughed off as superstition. Only the immediately effected parties knew the truth of the latter._

_Christine, perhaps unsurprisingly, fell ill, though not severely. Her case was mostly down to severe shock combined with a mild cold. At Raoul's insistence, she remained in bed for several days, though with a few minor protestations. She urged him to see after the well being of Madame Giry and her daughter, and after making a few inquiries, he was able to discover they were lodging in a boarding house, but had already paid a sum for a small flat they would be moving into within the next fortnight. He paid the two of them a brief visit and took coffee with them at an uncomfortably small table. They were relieved to hear that Christine was under his care and was safe, but Madame Giry fixed the Vicomte with a severe look._

"_You will however, understand my concern, Monsieur." He noticed she failed to use his title. "I see Christine as a daughter and while she is unmarried, I think it wise that she still remain under my care. Therefore, I will send for her when Meg and I are settled."_

"_Madame Giry," Raoul began, slightly uncomfortable under her steely eye. From the corner of his eye, he saw Meg Giry bringing the milk, hearing the jug rattle against the tray. "I appreciate you wanting to look out for Christine. But she is currently bed ridden with a bad cold and I think to move her at the moment wouldn't be the best thing for her." He took a sip of scalding coffee to steady his nerves, the chip in his cup not escaping him. "Also… I plan to marry Christine as soon as possible, so I think it would be more convenient if she remains at the Chateau if she is to be permanently settled there shortly."_

_He held his ground as the expression on her face changed from one of disbelief to annoyance. "If you believe that is best, Monsieur, than _I_ shall not argue with you." The look in her eyes stated that she clearly wanted to. "However, there is just one thing I want to ask: has Christine agreed to this?"_

_He was aware of Meg Giry watching him intently, the cup frozen halfway to her lips. The truth was, he hadn't actually spoken to Christine about any such thing. He had merely assumed that she would be just as happy with the arrangement as he was. But there was a rather knowing look in Madame Giry's eye that needed gainsaying._

"_Of course," he lied, surprised at the smoothness at which he did so. "But if at any point, she does change her mind or wish to stay with you, then of course I won't stand in her way."_

_And so Raoul rode home in much thought, resolving to tell Christine of his hopes for their swift marriage as soon as he arrived at the Chateau._

_That was when he was greeted by the Commissary of the police, who had arrived with the news that Philippe's body had just been found._

_He remembered nothing of that following week – he walked and moved as one in a numb dreamlike state, like a somnambulist. The first clear memory he had was of Christine, who after a week of recuperation, was reluctant to remain an invalid any longer, and against the wishes of several maidservants, rose on a chilly morning in late February, wrapped a robe around herself and went downstairs._

_Raoul was in the breakfast room, cup of coffee untouched, and staring unseeingly at the morning's paper. He heard Christine enter before he saw her, and stood up at once, coffee sloshing unheeded onto the tablecloth. He had spent the last few days investing all his energies into caring for her well being, because he couldn't stop to let himself think about his brother, not when he had so much to take care of. He couldn't afford to fall apart. Not when there was so much to do, so much…_

"_Christine," he said mechanically, making his way towards her. "You should be in bed. You are still unwell. Let me take you upstairs, and I'll order the maid to bring you in breakfast…"_

"_No Raoul," she said, gently, yet firmly. She stepped away from his hold, meeting his gaze steadily. He noted with a detached, clinical sort of concern that she had lost weight despite his orders that she be well fed. There were dark circles beneath her eyes and her shoulders looked so frail, the collarbones clearly visible and alarmingly protuberant. He was sure this wasn't a simple cold she was suffering from. Her next words confirmed his inner conviction._

"_I have been meaning to speak to you for a few days now. Please, just listen. Otherwise I don't think I'll be able to –" She lifted her chin, almost trembling with resolution. "I need some time to myself. You've been so kind to me, but things cannot remain like this." She looked at him miserably. "Do you understand?"_

_Perhaps he did. Perhaps he had understood all the time, but was unable to acknowledge it to himself. Perhaps a part of him wanted her to state it beyond a doubt. "If you wanted to be out of bed, you could have said something. I'm not comfortable with this, but I can talk to the doctor and see that something can be arranged. I'll send away the maids –"_

"_Raoul. Listen." Christine pulled the hem of her robe tighter around herself and he wondered how someone so delicate and fragile could be seemingly so filled with pain, yet have such self-will. "I need time away from here. Time away from this Chateau, this estate –"_

"_And from me," he finished dully. _

_Christine looked desperately unhappily "I wish I didn't have to tell you this now, I _am_ sorry. I'm afraid it's just how I feel."_

"_But –" He couldn't believe he was hearing this, now of all times. "What about our engagement, our wedding? We are supposed to be getting married." _

"_I am not saying the wedding is off." A pale smile lit her haunted features for a brief moment. "Indeed, I certainly hope it isn't. I just… need time to think. I don't know how I feel about anything at the moment. Anyone," she added, almost involuntarily._

_Raoul thought that after his brother's death he was beyond being able to feel any more pain, but apparently, he had been wrong._

_He had learnt from a young age to control his emotions – that the social self and the emotional self should never be allowed to cross. As a result, he had always had a firm grip over his more impulsive feelings, that he could lock away at will when it was necessary to show a calm and respectable face to the world. Violent outbursts of temper were something associated with the more savage lower orders and criminal classes. Raoul's own upbringing and personal self-will had never allowed him to indulge in his own emotions. But now he was tempted to hurl some of his mother's expensive china against the wall and give vent to the storm of grief that had been brewing inside him. It seemed that in death, Erik couldn't have picked a better way to leave his mark on Christine. _

"_How long do you think you will need?" he said in a hollow voice._

"_I don't know," she said, clearly in some disbelief that he had even asked such a question. _

_For a moment, it was hard to breathe. "So I'm supposed to just wait around until you're ready to come back to me? That is, if you decide to, of course." _

_Mingled hurt and anger flashed through her expressive eyes. "I thought you of all people would understand! I am not deliberately trying to hurt you, Raoul. Would you prefer me to stay? I will, if you demand it." She crossed her arms, waiting expectantly, daring him to try._

_A part of him – though only a very small part – was tempted to ask her to do just that. But then something inside him collapsed. Christine wasn't the person he should be fighting._

"_I'm sorry, Christine." His voice was quieter now, he noted with relief, and back to its wonted calmness. "I spoke hastily. Of course, you may go. I'll see that your things are packed and ready as soon as you wish. Take as much time as you need." _

_The anger in her eyes softened into sympathy. "Thank you." The two words carried such a depth of feeling he had not thought possible. Raoul desperately wanted to put his arms around her, but held himself deliberately still although it was one of the hardest things he had ever done. "Where will you go?" he said, though he already knew the answer._

"_To the Girys. I haven't seen her for days, and I know Maman will be happy to have me." He could almost feel her inhalation as she took a deep breath, and tilted her head upward, looking searchingly into his eyes. "I know I am asking a lot, but Raoul… can you not push me into any decision? After everything that has happened, I mean it when I say I need time to myself." Her hand reached up to caress his face and he held it there, closing his eyes. "Perhaps this wedding is only postponed."_

_It was meant to be comforting, but the word _perhaps_ caused his chest to tighten in a tangled knot of painful emotions. He said nothing however, merely holding her against him and wishing he could never let her go._

_She left the next day._

_Raoul spent the following weeks throwing himself into any task that came to hand. It was easier during the day, but at night his sleepless hours were haunted by memories of his brother, while his dreams were mercilessly filled with Christine. He was unsure which hurt more. He had not been as close to his brother as he could have been, but Philippe had been a constant part of his life, a part he had never really thought of until it was gone. The subliminal love that had been safely overlooked and ignored was all of a sudden renewed with the searing pain of a knife driving into flesh. It was a cruel and terrible thing, this rediscovered fraternal love that had been hidden so long and awakened too late._

_Then came the dreams of heartache and longing. Images of married bliss taunted him through the dark hours, dancing just out of his reach, causing him to awake with one shining moment of delirious happiness. Then memory returned – the knowledge and the bitterness – and he found himself wondering whether Christine had ever really loved him at all to put him through such torment. And in spite of what she had said, he rifled feverishly through the mail each morning in expectation of receiving a letter from her, to no avail. Not even a line came his way, so after a week of crushed hopes, he resorted to calling on her instead._

_It wasn't as though he had nothing to do but pine away for Christine, however. Almost every hour of the day was overrun with his having to run the Chateau and the de Chagny estate, since - _

_Philippe's death was still something of a mystery. Despite Raoul's attempts to stem the rumours, even his influence was not enough to hold back the delicious scandal of gossip. Now it seemed that no one in Paris was ignorant of the fact that the Count had been found drowned under the Opera. What he had been doing under the cellars no one could say, but rumours persisted around the singer Christine Daae, and an argument with his brother with whom he had formerly been uncommonly close._

_What added to Raoul's grief was the realisation that the Count had died in the very part of the lake that he himself had almost met his death at. It appeared that Philippe had attempted to follow Raoul, and had fallen into the same part of the lake as himself. However, his brother had not been able to stop the descent of the heavy iron grille and by the time he was found, it was already too late. The Police regarded it a terrible tragedy. Raoul knew better. Erik had killed his brother just as surely as if he had put a knife through his heart._

_He had been counting on Christine to help him through the shock and agony of loss – she who had experienced such piercing and terrible grief herself – but he had not so much as set eyes on her since last seeing her pale face in the carriage window as she was driven away from the de Chagny Estate. He had been calling faithfully every week and each time had been turned away. Christine wished to be left alone. She didn't want to see anyone. Every visit, Madame Giry had opened the door, repeating in the same infuriatingly calm voice: "She will see you when she is ready, Monsieur." _If_ she was ready, her tone clearly implied, but she never said it._

_Now three months had passed and Raoul's apathy and numbness were sharpening into anger, being honed into resentment and pain and bitterness and other awful emotions that until recently, had been entirely alien to him. Three months and he had not so much as set eyes on the girl who was supposed to be his fiancée. Why was he putting himself through this week after week? Was anyone really worth this amount of heartache and sufferance? But then, it wasn't a matter of choice. There was only the intrinsic love for Christine that now seemed to be something more terrible than beautiful. _

Time to think_, she had said. But how much time did she need? He had given her three whole months of time. For the past month, he had told himself each time he went to visit would be the last if she refused to see him. But always, he walked away, telling himself: one more week…_

* * *

Raoul was jolted into wakefulness as the carriage pulled up outside the row of apartment buildings in the rather dour-looking street.

He brought down the heavy brass knocker in that long practised gesture and waited resignedly for an answer. The door was opened and he was greeted with the familiar sight of Madame Giry. This time however, he could detect just the hint of a smile in her stern features.

"She will see you now, Monsieur."

Raoul faltered a moment, wondering if he could sufficiently trust his faculties to have correctly heard what she just said. "Are you sure?" he said cautiously. Too many of his illusions had been shattered to take the widow's words on faith alone.

"Quite sure. Come with me."

In a daze, he followed her through the dimly lit hallway; mind too occupied to pay any attention to his surroundings. Indeed, he barely acknowledged Meg Giry who greeted him cheerfully and inquired after his health. He recovered himself sufficiently to say some nonsense about his being fine – fine! – before he moved on.

Madame Giry left him alone outside Christine's room and he felt suddenly uneasy. He had no idea what his reception would be and it was with great trepidation that he turned the handle and walked inside.

There was a stifled exclamation, then a pair of arms were thrown around his neck and her sweet voice was whispering in a rush of warmth against his cheek: "Oh dearest, I am so, so sorry! You _do_ forgive me, don't you? Madame Giry told me you came every week without fail – how sweet and patient you have been – and I did want to see you so much, but… you do understand? Tell me you understand?"

While she spoke, his arms went around her, holding her slim body tightly against him. She was here, she was real. Reluctantly, he withdrew his grasp and held her away from him to look at her face. Her cheeks glowed with healthy colour; her eyes were bright, her curls shining. Whatever anger he previously felt departed at once, seeing her so happy and healthy before him. He hugged her again. "It is so good to see you!" he said fervently. "I missed you."

As his lips sought hers, she turned away at the last moment – but not before Raoul caught the look on her face, reluctance and terrible guilt mingled. It was worse than if she had pushed him away or struck him. He slowly drew back, trying to read the expression in her eyes, and saw only lingering shadows there.

"What?" he said. "What is it?"

He feared he knew the answer, treacherous as it might seem. It was whispering to him in his blood. Doubts resurfaced, those doubts that had been just as apparent on that dark, dangerous fire-dancing night of _Don Juan. _There had been anger then, yes, and bitterness, but also a terrible kind of relief in the knowing. He had felt it with such conviction, stood on a balcony three months ago, hidden in shadow. _She doesn't love me anymore. If, indeed, she ever did._

Did he believe that now? Nothing had simple answers anymore. For years he had thought he knew Christine better than anyone else in the world, but that night she had seemed like someone else entirely. Someone dark and distant and not a little frightening, a sensual woman with a flash of knowledge in her eyes and passion smouldering in her features. Yet in a matter of hours she had once more become the Christine he knew and loved – tired and strained – but herself again.

She had stepped away from him, setting herself down on the small plush settee and indicating he do the same. Raoul joined her, feeling as though he was being cut apart inside.

_If she meant to turn me down all this time, _he wondered, _then why the pretence? Why keep me waiting for three months?_

He looked at Christine. Her delicate white fingers were playing with the folds of her skirt and she seemed unable to meet his eyes. Finally, she looked up hesitantly, about to speak, and Raoul realised he didn't want to hear it. If he had to listen to it coming from her, he didn't think he would be able to stand it. If she was going to break his heart, it might just be too much for him.

Unless he did it for her.

"Christine," he said, and it was the voice of a stranger, one who could hurt her the way he never could. "There's no point dragging this out longer than is necessary. If we're going to do this, let's not make any long goodbyes. After all, there's no reason why –" he forced the words out ruthlessly, and wondered whether it was Philippe's death that had made detaching himself from everything somehow easier– "why we cannot remain friends."

Christine was staring at him. She had turned very white. "Raoul – what are you saying?"

"If you do not wish for this engagement to continue, you may as well say so at once and save me any more time of false hope. I've already waited three months, and if it's your intention to turn me down, then waste no more time in doing so."

"Why are you talking like this?" she whispered, looking stricken. "Why would you even think something like that?"

He couldn't bear the way she was looking at him – as though he were something monstrous. "Well what am I supposed to think?" he said flatly. "Refusing to see me for three months, with not so much as a word to tell me you were alright –"

"You _knew_ I was alright –" she started to say but he cut her off.

"Holding me at arm's length, letting me dangle for weeks and weeks, and then when you finally deign to notice me, you do not even seem to acknowledge the fact we are engaged! Have you forgotten _this_?" He said, picking her hand that once wore his engagement ring, before she had given it to Erik.

Christine sat very still, waiting for him to finish. He saw the hurt in her eyes, and the reproach, and was overcome by a stab of remorse. "Christine -" he began, but she shook her head.

"No. You're right, Raoul. I am truly sorry, my behaviour has been most insensitive, but I feel I was justified. I needed time to think, to be alone. I had to be sure how I felt. After what – what happened, I had to get away, to work things through. I did it for _you_, for us! Can you not see that? I didn't want to give you hope until I was absolutely certain about what I wanted."

"And," he said quietly. "What _do _you want?"

She smiled at him then, such a pure, joyful smile, that it broke like a ray of sunshine across her face. "There is nothing more I want than to be with you for ever and ever," she said simply.

Raoul couldn't speak. Couldn't think. He stared at Christine. There was an expression of intense happiness on her face that was both terrible and wonderful all at once. She was still smiling up at him as though it were the most natural thing in the world. And it was, he realised, his heart pierced with emotion. It was right.

"But…" His voice was unsteady. "Then why was it just now, you wouldn't let me kiss you…?"

She sighed. "I didn't doubt my own feelings, and I was so wild with happiness to see you that I only just stopped to consider that you might not feel the same way about me."

"_Not feel the same_ _–?_" repeated Raoul in disbelief. _Is it possible she doesn't know – she really doesn't know how I feel about her?_

"Do you forgive me?" Christine said.

He shook his head slightly, words almost failing him. "Christine, you know I –"

She looked up at him earnestly and he felt his heart wrench at the sight of her face, the almost painful familiarity of it, and Raoul leaned forward and kissed her.

His hands went to her waist, fisting in the material of her modest dress, and drawing her closer to him. They had shared kisses before, but this was different. Back in the Opera House, Raoul had always sensed her holding something back, her fear of discovery, and of placing both their lives in peril. But now they were safe – truly safe – and he knew she felt it in the way her body yielded instinctively, the stresses and strains of weeks and months dissolving in an instant. He felt her hands slide around his neck and he lifted her up against him until they were so close they seemed to share one yearning, desperate heartbeat. Christine had closed her eyes, arching her head back in unconscious surrender, and Raoul thought this made all the months of waiting and uncertainty worth it. This was returning home after years of journeying in a bleak and barren country. Right now, Madame Giry could have walked in on them and he wouldn't have cared less. Nothing but Christine: the scent of faint perfume and lilies, her fingers warm against his neck, the coiled silk of her hair brushing his skin… He could sense the unspoken words she wanted to say to him, and had been wanting to say for the last three months, _I do love you, I do, you know that don't you, I always will, and – oh Raoul! _

_You don't need to say it, _he thought, holding her tightly against him. _I know. I know._


	2. The Prayer and the Promise

**The Mask and Mirror**

_Toll no bell for me, Father  
But let this cup of suffering pass from me  
Send me no shepherd to heal my world  
But the Angel - the dream foretold  
Prayed more than thrice for You to see  
The wolf of loneliness in me_

(Nightwish, Gethsemane)

Chapter 2

_She had plunged from paradise into hell. _

_There was no light or hope left - no faith or consolation. It had all been lies. From the very first time he had whispered to her in sleep to the moment he had drawn her through the parted mirror and into his labyrinthine underworld. Those moments of devotion had been illusions. Her eyes had opened onto a false dawn and now there was only darkness._

I believed… I believed so much that I wept for joy…

_Dark hair spilled over the flagstones as she knelt penitently before the altar, as frozen and unmoving as the holy statues that adorned the lofty walls. Bleak darkness surrounded her. The stone floor of the chapel cold as her hands, cold as her heart._

_She was left with nothing but echoes and emptiness. The chapel was cold and silent as an abyss. _Here _he had appeared to her on that fatal night and promised her heavenly rapture… filling the void ripped open by her beloved father's death. His voice. Making her feel warm… complete… _alive_. Drawing her soul to the pinnacle of transcendent heights. He sang, he _sang_… and like glass, she shattered. White flame, burning ecstasy, she died._

_And every word had been false. Every assurance had been a mockery. _

_She waited, as though half-expecting the senseless stone to stir into movement and strike her to the earth. That those lifeless eyes would open to look on her with condemnation. For she had worshipped a false idol and now must pay the price._

_Christine looked up into the empty silence. It was vast, brooding, unbearable. She ached for music. The mystical, elemental, divine melodies had wrung her heartstrings and he had promised her paradise. She had yearned for spiritual ecstasy, sang piercing and beautiful cadenzas until she was faint with delirium. Once she had sang until her senses left her and her body sank into unconsciousness, the darkness enfolding her with its sweet embrace._

_She fell and he had caught her. Only last night! How could one fly into the sun and fall into the abyss in a matter of hours? She had aged lifetimes in the space of a day._

_How clear it was still, the memory of her standing in front of the mirror in agonised hope, a slender hand outstretched, her reflection dissolving into his. He caged her, imprisoned her. His voice enchaining her soul. His hands over her body, an act both sacrilegious and profane. It consumed. It burned. An ocean of fire through her blood. And she had not run._

_Until… the enchantment of his music dissipated, and she had stripped away the illusion - the _mask, _and saw_ -

_What _was _he, this being that had possessed her, stolen her mind and imprisoned her body? A devil? A ghost? A demon? A spirit from another world that she had dreamed into being?_

_She pressed her hands to her aching brow. God, she could not think of it. She was losing her mind. The vaulted heights gave her no answers; her agonised prayers were met with indifference. Yet she could not sleep. Sleep brought only nightmares, and that _voice_ - elusive, beautiful, maddening - followed her into those half-remembered dreams of agony and yearning._

_She could not stand it. The moment she had pulled the mask from his face, she had fled from his wild eyes and fevered heart. Bitter with the knowledge that her salvation had been a cruel illusion. He had given her the world and then torn it apart. And now she was left alone in the dark with nothing but ghosts and shadows and old lies._

_But then - the darkness _moved. _A haunting voice disturbing the profound silence._

"_You cannot run."_

_Her body convulsed. Agony, horror - and yes - longing, froze her in place._

_The blackness parted slightly, that ghostlike form gradually gaining substance and solidity. She saw him at last. Elusive in the ephemeral light of the flickering candles. A phantom in the darkness. Black as sin, yet that mask gleamed bone-white, pale as death. And behind that… oh, God…! … she shuddered at the memory. She had seen his face! His hideous, monstrous face. The twisted contortions of a demon, a demon with an angel's voice. Faintness overcame her. Her trembling hands reached out, but there was nothing to steady her, no net to catch her if she fell._

_Christine closed her eyes, trembled. _

"_What do you want?"_

"_Only to see you."_

_Such an ache of longing passed through her at the sound of that voice! Even now, she found herself falling under its melancholy, evocative spell. Perspiration beaded cold on her brow._

_Her icy hands clenched into fists. She would not look at him. She could_ _not look at him._

"_Leave me alone. Please."_

"_I cannot." His voice was calm. "I _will _not."_

_Slowly, she raised her eyes. The sleek black lines of his jacket rippled like the vast wings of a terrible angel. The figure of her darkest dreams breathed into life from her misery and deluded longings. And those eyes - those desperate, yearning, furious eyes - seemed to see into her, beyond her._

_Was _this _the angel she had prayed and sang to night after night? This creature fallen from light and reborn in darkness?_

_She wrapped her arms around herself to suppress the violent trembling of her body. The cold clung to her bones. It was almost a relief. Perhaps if she froze to death, she would not feel._

_At last, she spoke._

"_You lied to me."_

"_Yes," he said steadily. "And I would lie a thousand times."_

"_Why?" _

"_Because I love you."_

_Christine shuddered again, a knife's blade of cold running down her spine. His dark gaze burned her soul with its intensity._

"_You don't love me," she said shakily. "You don't even know me."_

"_I know you better than anyone."_

_Her mind was reeling. This could not be real. This could not be happening to her._

"_Who are you?"_

"_What I have always been."_

_Wild anger surged through her, thawing the terrible frost. Her voice came out high-pitched and shrill. "Who are you? Tell me!"_

_He sighed - and that sigh! It almost broke her heart. _

"_My name is Erik."_

"_And my father…" She could not go on. The sharpness of that loss came over her once more, blinding and unutterable. There had been no visitation, no divine consolation. Yet she had thought, she had _believed…

"_I gave you only what you wished for, Christine. What you prayed for in the long nights." His gaze ghosted over her hungrily, desperately. Watching every unsteady breath she drew. "I would give you anything you asked."_

_She was beyond listening to him. How could she, when he had shattered her soul?_

"_How _could _you?" she whispered._

_That porcelain mask never moved. "I wanted only to be near you. To hear you sing. To have you with me. You made the darkness beautiful." His smile tilted on the edge of cruelty. The edge of madness._

_She could not listen to this… she could not… Impossible to think _she _could arouse such passion unknowingly._

_He had moved closer. She could smell incense, darkness, closing in around her. Wrapping itself around her senses in long fingers. He looked down intently into her face. Eyes black in the gloom. Infernal. Hot as the brimstones that probably awaited her… but no hell could be worse than this…_

_Full lips curled. "Are you afraid of me, Christine?"_

"_Yes," she said._

_She wondered how she looked to him, a trembling girl with tear-blurred eyes, so overwhelmed in her own agony and helplessness. Would he leave her in peace and end this consuming madness? Was there any pity in the depths of that blackened heart?_

_Even as the thought flashed through her mind, he fell to his knees, crippled, contrite, humbled, arms outstretched in a silent, entreating crucifix. Despair burned in his eyes as he looked at her with the acute wretchedness of the damned. "I will do anything you ask."_

"_Then leave me alone." The words were torn from her, quivering in the echoing silence._

_His impassioned gaze darkened. "You do not mean that."_

"_Yes," she whispered stubbornly. "I do."_

_She could hear the cruel sneer in his voice. "You would renounce your teacher, your guide?"_

"_I'll leave," she breathed mindlessly, knowing even as she spoke that such a thing was impossible._

"_If you do, I will follow you, and I'll find you."_

_And she knew in that he was telling the truth. There was nowhere for her to run. He would pursue her to the grave._

_He drew himself up to his full height. Closer still. His shadow swallowing hers. Dark eyes flashed on her with tender ferocity. "Let me teach you. Sing for me still. Christine, I am the same angel you knew and loved."_

"_No." Tears stiffened on her cheeks. "No, everything is changed now."_

_He made an entreating movement. Hands outstretched, casting a shadow over her soul. She tried to move, but her footsteps were slow and dragging. Blindly, she stumbled. _

"_Christine -"_

_Her name coming from that devastating voice was too much. Christine turned and ran._

_She did not even make it half a step to the door._

_A blur of darkness and he was before her. He caught her wrists in a breakable hold, gloved hands caging the fluttering pulse, the fragile bones. She gasped for breath. Hotter than a thousand fires, colder than death, that touch seared through her… and oh, this was no ghost holding her…_

_Hands shackling her. Emotion wrenched her from within. Her mind was dragged back to those resonating touches in the cellars of the opera, every soft and melodious cadence of his voice claiming her flesh. Long-fingered hands everywhere. Shoulders, waist, jaw. Her body sinking under those enfolding caresses… _

My God, what have you done to me?

_She shook at her enclosed wrists as though chains bound her._

"_Stop this," she whispered faintly._

_He laughed, but there was something hollow and terrible in the sound. "Even now you will not disobey your Master."_

_She tried to pull away. Couldn't. He was immoveable._

"_No - you have no hold over me -"_

_His cruel mouth was a rigid line. "You _cannot _renounce me."_

"_I can," she panted, struggling still - uselessly - "and I will."_

_His eyes glinted dangerously. Holding her, hurting her. _

"_You will not run," he growled, his breathing harsh in the space between them. "You _will _not. Your destiny is bound to mine." _

_She stared at him with fever-bright eyes. He was so warm, so real, so alive… how could she have not known? What wilful blindness, what madness had compelled her to believe in this deception?_

_So many faces fluttering across her consciousness. Father, angel, phantom. There was no escape. She wanted him to awaken her from this nightmare… he _was_ her nightmare. Perhaps she had wished for all this. Perhaps she had brought it upon herself. _

"_Please," she managed at last._

_That iron grip loosened. Eased. But _then… _his gloved hand began to trace a slow, tremulous line across her collarbone. Longing flashed through her. After so many years encased in ice… marble melting into flesh…_

_He was too close. She couldn't breathe. The chapel, the Opera House, had blurred away into another world. Dark paradise. Illumined hell. There was only this, him… _my angel, my demon…

_Hot breath against her shoulder. The hollow of her throat. A soft cry escaped her._

_He gazed down at her, fierce and furious, eyes black with intent. Dark hair fell wildly over a brow of porcelain. The grip of that leather-clad hand tightened on her thin shoulder. Breakable. Like her bones. Like her heart. He drew a harsh breath, his beautiful voice harsh and menacing._

"_You once made me promise that I would never leave you."_

"_But that was when - when -" _when I _believed -_

_Despair overwhelmed her. Christine sank in his hold. Those gloved hands were like ice against her skin, so cold it made her body shake, chilling her to the bone. His heart was beating too fast. Throbbing against her breast with maddened passion._

"_And do you remember what I told you?"_

"_You said that - that -" She could not go on._

"_That nothing could loosen the bonds of heaven," he finished grimly._

But I was a child then, and alone in the world…

_She shuddered a breath and met his gaze. Terrible and ruthless, like the stone angels that looked down upon them, but no stone was he, this living flesh and blood man, and certainly no angel -_

"_And what about the bonds of hell, Erik?" she whispered._

_His hands stilled and something unnameable flashed through his eyes. It frightened her more than anything ever had._

"_Say that again." His voice was low. "Call me by my name. Call me Erik."_

_But she could not speak. His touches were crucifying her. Hands twisting in the fragile lace of her nightgown. Gossamer-fine material, fluttering. Fragile. Her breaths became short and frantic, gasping air through quivering lungs. _

_Leather fingers harder and more ruthless than his eyes, possessively claiming her neck, her arms, her waist. Pulling her against the hard line of his body, leather and silk and porcelain, his shadowed glances stripping away her skin and exposing her shivering soul…_

_Moonlight._

_Stone._

_Sinners._

_She shuddered, she shook, she cried out. Her heart beating, pulsing, panting… no, she could not bear it -_

_Her fingertips were icy, but her palms were sweating as she pushed fiercely against the lapels of his jacket. But how could she fight a ghost? _

"_Stop this…" she whispered. "Please."_

_Finally, his hands fell away from her. Christine realised she was standing alone in the aisle, shivering and half-dying of cold. His dark form had drawn back into the shadows. Two pinpricks of light glimmered through the mask. His gaze searing into hers._

"_You will see me again, Christine."_

_Fear seized her, clutched at her throat, but he had already disappeared and only a voice remained, echoing in the solemn silence with the profound depths of the final judgment._

"_We part, never - I will be with you forever."_

* * *

_Is this my punishment, Lord? _

She gazed up at the ceiling as though wishing it would open wide and devour her, bringing her some moment of release. Once she had knelt thus in her dressing room, waiting for the nightly tracks of an angel who never failed to come to her.

_Is this the price I must pay for such a betrayal?_

White silk billowed around her kneeling form.

_They don't know, any of them. They cannot understand. They see only a villain, a devil, one of the damned. If he is so, then why is it my fate not to see him as they do?_

Christine rose slowly, her legs stiffened in acute pain from their prolonged position on the hard floor. The Girys had given her a small room at the top of the house, assuming she wished for privacy. She smiled bitterly. By God, how wrong they were. To be secluded in such silence, such overwhelming solitude… this was death, darkness, a devastating wilderness. She needed company, to be distracted from the overpowering thoughts that dwelt hopelessly on what she had lost. The room was cold, frozen as the dead earth, but she welcomed the frost, as it stopped her thinking, stopped her feeling -

She pulled a robe around herself and passed like a ghost through the path of cold winter moonlight that streamed across the floor. The window sash was stiffened by age but her trembling hands had thrown it open in an instant. The half-frozen shutters shook snow over her. A savage and fierce blast of winter air swept into the chamber and assaulted her unmoving form, but the icy tendrils were unable to clear the wild and uncontrollable emotions that raged within her. She seized the frosted ledge in a delirium, gazing out half-blindly. The fog was so complete, even the carriages rolling past in the streets below could not be seen. She could have been the last being left in the world. Alone. The one thing she feared above all else, and it had fallen upon her once more. It seemed she was destined to be alone, abandoned by those she loved most. First her dear father, then Mama Valerius, now the one in whom she had found solace, Erik, her angel, her soul's comfort… gone forever.

She stared unseeing at the shadowy world concealed by mist, and then upward at the sublime expanse of night sky. The silver moon was shrouded by fog, but every now and then, she caught the fleeting glimmer of stars, glittering hard and cold, as bright as the painful stinging behind her eyes.

And she had betrayed him.

_I had no choice - there was nothing else I could do -_

_Then why must it hurt?_

Slender fingers reached up to the hem of her robe to pull it tighter around herself, when she felt the sheer material tangle on something around her neck. With hands becoming steadily more numbed, she fumbled with the catch until the crucifix came undone and was resting in her palm. She stared at the figure of Christ crucified. A choking feeling rose up in her throat. The image burned her eyes; the bowed head, the crown of thorns. She remembered Erik's expression of grief and surrender as she pressed her lips to his, and a storm of passionate tears shook her.

_How could I have abandoned him so cruelly… I'm the only one he ever had… how could I?_

He had given up everything to release her. At the last, he had not been found wanting. She could only pray that last act of self-sacrifice would be enough to save him. Terrible doubt assailed her. Would it be enough to ensure his redemption?

_Have I saved him or damned him?_

Christine closed her eyes, frozen and beside herself.

_O be thou nailed unto my heart,  
__And crucified again,  
__Part not from it, though it from thee would part._

The thin silver chain fell from her shaking fingers and clattered to the floor.

Her body felt as though it was slowly dying inside. She wrapped her arms around her slight frame, trying to hold herself together, before everything would be released in a deluge of bitter agony and outrage. This must be how it felt to grow old, she reflected dimly. This sense of weakness, as though the strength and fire and sweet joys of youth were being drained away and only the shell was left, collapsing slowly inwards until only ashes and dust remained. _But I'm only eighteen_, her mind cried out in helpless protest. _This should not be happening to me! It is too soon, I'm not_ ready!

Is this what she would have to endure? Would this be her existence now? Struggling to get through every moment, each minute, each hour, each day, with this unbearable emptiness in her soul? Her white face burned with a feverish pallor; its lines and contours hollowed with the exactness of a carved statue. It was as though something – youth, hope, love – was being drawn from her slowly, extracted by some sickness running through her veins. There was a desperate frailty to her now, enhanced by the moonlight illuminating the moth-like delicacy of her skin.

Christine shuddered with cold, the ice on the windowpane searing her feverishly hot skin like the blade of a knife. Her entire body was frozen; she glanced down at her clenched hands, gleaming like pale marble, numbness already stealing into her unmoving fingers. What was it, this sickness inside her, this malady that would not heal? She didn't want this. She wanted to escape this aching void that opened before her. She wanted to feel alive.

She wanted fire.

That was what _Don Juan_ had given her. Fire. Burning. Smouldering. All-consuming. It had terrified her then, but now her soul yearned for it. Anything to draw her in from the cold. She would never tell Raoul how much of her soul she had thrown into that violent tableau. There was so much he did not yet understand, despite his heartfelt assertions she could tell him anything. But she knew that if she even begun to express her true emotions at Erik's loss, it would hurt him beyond imagining, and that she could not bear. And how could she speak of something that was so wholly beyond her understanding? He could never know. Never realise that Erik would always be a part of her, however much she resisted or fought against it. How could he not be? He was the one who had reawakened the love for music, filled her soul with its transcendent beauty once more, overwhelmed her with the glory and the grief of this troubled world and the world that was yet to come. All her life she believed she had been destined to meet the angel of Music, and that moment she first heard his voice, it seemed her aching heart's every wish was fulfilled. He had made her want to live again. And now, and _now_…

Her dry eyes burned.

She loved Raoul, more than anything – so much it _hurt_ – but was it enough if she could not reconcile herself to the fact that Erik had been hopelessly lost to her?

It would get better with time. She had to believe that. Yet all she saw now was despair. The only way she could survive this empty world was to carry on living, but how could she hope to do so when a part of her yearned for that other world her loved ones inhabited?

_No. This must stop. Erik is gone. Papa is gone_. _But you are not alone. There is still Raoul._

Raoul. Her heart contracted to a sullen ache when she thought of the misery in his beloved face when she had left him that morning. He did not deserve this. Beloved, ardent, constant Raoul. The dearest person in the world to her. She would have cut off her right hand if it could have spared him pain, but she could not agree to an engagement while her emotions were so raw, her feelings so confused. She owed him that honesty. Her existence had been torn apart and she needed time to rebuild it. She desperately hoped he understood her reasons – that she could not marry him while feeling this way – but feared instead he thought her merely capricious and callous. Christine debated writing to him, to express the devastating feelings that burned her heart and mind, but feared it would only bring him to her when she needed him to stay away. She could not see him until she was sure she could heal. She _must _heal.

Oh God, why did she feel like this?

Erik was gone. Wasn't that what she had longed for all this time? To be released from his annihilating hold at last? So why wasn't she happy?

Christine gripped the windowsill, staring out into the mist.

She knew the answer.

Erik's music had touched her more than she had ever suspected, echoed through her entire being and awakened that unearthly wish to transcend herself. Had she really thought renouncing those devastating moments of completeness would be so easy? That Erik would be gone and she and Raoul would live in innocent bliss as though none of this had happened? No, no, she could never escape him so easily! A part of her was bound to him inextricably. She would never be free of him. She was foolish to have even thought so for a moment. Now without him, she must endure the emptiness and torment of living in this world, knowing once more the separateness of existence. It had been hard enough agreeing to play her part in _Don Juan_. But it had ultimately been her decision. She had made that choice.

And now she must live with it.

* * *

Christine hoped never to experience the violent madness of that first night ever again. And although this wish was not granted, and she spent many a sleepless night in the cold attic room of the Girys apartment, the passing of weeks into months began to soften that sharp agony of grief, and fleeting glimmers of joy added a gentle grace note to her reviving existence. She could not define exactly when, but at some point she had made the decision to live again.

It was easier when she was not alone. The company of Meg and her mother was invaluable; they saw she was kept occupied and in the first weeks of her staying with them, she threw herself madly into any task that would prove a distraction. Busy with household duties, being taken around Paris – though avoiding its Opera House – time began to resume its normal progression. She no longer felt she was falling out and away from the world.

Raoul's absence was perhaps more powerful than his presence. Over the days and weeks that followed, Christine found herself thinking more and more of those long-remembered times in Perros, those cherished memories persuading her she loved him more than ever. She was filled with a desire to visit their old childhood haunts and to recapture their past – that happy past before any shadows had fallen between them. When her father had been alive, playing the violin to the two children who sat on either knee, breathlessly listening to every haunting note that lingered in the stormy twilight. If she concentrated hard enough, she could almost persuade herself that she heard the sea beating against the shingle, taste the tang of brine in the air. Even now, she remembered the little boy drenched to his shirt collars, fair hair plastered with salt water, but clutching her scarf undaunted and smiling. That smile had not changed. It was still the smile of the boy he once was, open, honest and heartfelt. There was no duplicity in Raoul, no mystery. It was not in his nature. He was the one pure and true thing in her world of loss and darkness and lies.

With Raoul, she had a chance of something she had never thought possible. A chance at happiness. The knowledge that he was still prepared to wait for her to come to terms with everything that had happened touched her deeply, bringing warmth to her cold heart. She was not blind. She knew he could probably have any woman in Paris he chose, but instead he remained unfailingly constant. The intense longing to see him increased with every day that passed. She missed him. As she grew healthier and stronger along with winter's turn into spring, her behaviour when she had last seen him filled her with constant remorse. Oh, her poor love! How hurt he must have felt, when she would rather have died than cause him any pain. She reminded herself that such a step had been necessary, but still –! It was cruel and wrong of her. She _should_ have written to him. But she knew Madame Giry was informing him of her well-being – each week with more sincerity. Besides, Christine could not help but feel she should speak to Raoul face to face when she saw him again.

_If you only knew, my darling, how much I long for that day. I know and believe in my heart that it will be soon and that I will be in your arms once more, my own beloved! I long for it more than anything in this world, even though I don't deserve it and you are in your rights never to forgive me for what I have put us both through. But I trust in your love for me and wish only to see you! But I am afraid - is that not foolish? I can hardly dare to believe in happiness after everything that has happened, but for _your _sake I will. For you I can believe anything._

Meg Giry's rather pointed remarks every time the carriage drove away were beginning to hit their intended mark and Christine found herself running out of excuses to turn Raoul away, other than her own shyness and fear. For two weeks now, she had initially told Madame Giry she would see him, only to be seized by a sudden and unexpected attack of nerves and change her mind a moment later. This impossible stasis continued until a morning in mid May, when Christine was woken by a rapid knocking on her door. A dreamy starter to the day, she groaned and pulled the blankets over her head, but the loud and impertinent rapping persisted.

"Christine! Christine, are you awake?"

Long experience in the Ballet Corps dormitories told Christine that she was not going to be left alone until Meg had said whatever was on her mind. Reluctantly dragging herself to the door, she opened it a crack and saw Meg – always an early riser – already dressed and glowing in a state she considered indecently bright and alert.

"Is this urgent?" she asked tiredly.

Without waiting for an invitation, Meg entered the room and curled up on Christine's bed, leaning forward eagerly and clasping her hands. They could have been back at the Opera House again, sharing gossip about the chorus girls, except that Christine had never indulged in gossip. Not when she had such spiritual concerns preoccupying her mind. The remembrance caused her a sharp pang. With a sigh she sat back against the pillows, pushing her unruly curls from her face.

"Is it true?" Meg demanded. "Maman says you turned the Vicomte away _again_ at the last minute! You are an idiot, Christine Daae!"

"Do you think I'm an idiot for wanting to be sure of my feelings?" cried a wounded Christine.

Meg exhaled in frustration. "Christine! It's _obvious_ you're in love with him. Why, you were swooning the very first time he came and watched us practicing _Hannibal_."

"I didn't swoon."

"Trust me, dear. You were swooning – completely. Carlotta herself couldn't have done better. But that's not the point. He's kind and rich and good-looking – and he's clearly infatuated with you. What possible reason can you have to turn him away?"

"I…" Christine stopped and sighed, realising she had no answer to this.

Meg drew her knees up to her chest and looked at her, an expression of uncommon solemnity on her vivid, coquettish little face. Her quick, dark eyes held a curiously penetrating look rarely seen in those mischievous, sparkling depths. "You are so strange, Christine. I believe you are half out of this world most of the time and you say such unsettling things I hardly know what you mean with your wild talk of ghosts and visions and dreams. It is all palaver and superstition to me. But I _do _know that you love the Vicomte. And I think you should let him know how you feel. If you keep him waiting for too long, he'll get tired and find someone else. I don't wish to make you worry, but well… he is a man, after all. And a noble. They're supposed to be the worst."

Christine suppressed a smile at this. Meg's silky blonde hair, dainty figure and talent for performing difficult ballet aerobics was well known to have driven half the noble patrons of the opera quite wild. But Raoul was not like those others. Hadn't the last few months proven that beyond all doubt? In her heart, she knew Meg spoke sense. She had no reason to hold Raoul off any longer. No reason at all.

"You're right," she said thoughtfully. "Not the part about Raoul being like other noblemen, but –"

"I'm only speaking from experience. Do you remember the Duc d'Aubigny?"

Christine frowned. "Wasn't he in love with you for about six months?"

Meg smiled, impishly. "Seven, actually. But when I finally shook him off he turned to Fantine Collette and – well, you know how that turned out. She's had her baby now, poor thing, and _he's _married the daughter of a Count. So much for all his promises."

Christine felt her cheeks colouring. Meg's openness on such subjects still embarrassed her.

"Not that anything like that will happen to you," Meg hastened to assure her. "The Vicomte's too in love with you to do anything that sordid. And he's so rich, it doesn't matter that you're poor. I'd marry him myself if he'd have me."

"_Meg!" _exclaimed a scandalised Christine.

"Sorry, darling. But he's really too good to for you to let him slip through your fingers."

"Yes," Christine said quietly. Resolve filled her. "Yes, he is."


	3. Moving Forward, Looking Back

**The Mask and Mirror**

_It don't make no difference, escaping one last time  
It's easier to believeIn this sweet madness, oh this glorious sadness  
That brings me to my knees_

(Sarah McLachlan, Arms of An Angel)

Chapter 3

Even in light of the demanding rehearsals when part of the Ballet Corps, the following six months were the busiest Christine had ever known. She had never dreamed that a wedding could take such preparation. Though to give him his due, Raoul had assured her that she need not worry about any of the arrangements, as everything was under control. He had thrown himself into the preparations with an eagerness that was almost frenzy, which surprised her. He was driven by a furious need to put the past behind them. It was clear he felt too much time had been taken from them already.

Raoul was now a daily caller at the Giry's flat. Meg Giry was always ready to greet him with an arch smile; even her mother had mellowed considerably towards him. They had even accepted his invitations to the chateau – although this kindness had a subliminal ulterior motive for the benefit of Madame Giry, to fully confirm that in marrying him, Christine would want for nothing. Raoul also saw to it that Christine herself would understand anything she wished for was hers for the asking. Taken around Paris shopping, trips to its famous sites, picnics in the park, dinners at the chateau, for Christine, the weeks flew by in a whirlwind of fever and excitement that hardly left her time to breathe. In those times, the laughing, eager, caring Raoul was the one she knew and had fallen for so many years ago. Yet something had altered from the easy familiarity of childhood, the sense of amiable camaraderie and sweet innocence of the days when they had lain together hand in hand, building castles in Spain, needing nothing more than dreams and joy and laughter. Now Christine would tremble if he touched her, her nerves heightened at his proximity. His blue eyes would darken as they met hers with an unspoken longing that made her heart shudder with some secret delight. This newly awakened spark of sensuality intensified as the weeks turned into months and their moments alone were becoming increasingly heightened, the engagement that seemed at first a blessing now feeling more like a frustration as it delayed the inevitable.

Yes, there was no longer any doubt in her mind or heart that she loved Raoul ardently, devotedly, desperately. How easy it was for her to lose herself in those sea-blue, sea-deep eyes, to find herself breathless at the warm smile that broke like a ray of sunlight across his noble, proud, determined face. Every passing day deepened her adoration for him. No one could be kinder, gentler or more compassionate than Raoul.

However, there were some clouds that darkened those months of sheer bliss. Christine found herself becoming annoyed and soon alarmed at his lavishness towards her. It seemed he would spare no expense catering to her slightest whim, even something mentioned offhand in conversation that she had never given a second thought to. Soon Christine was careful not to mention anything she might want in his presence, knowing that if she did so, she would arrive home to find a package delivered, signed _with all my love – Raoul_.

She found it hard in her heart to condemn him, for she knew this generosity was not a case of Raoul's being careless about money. Indeed, he managed his finances scrupulously, but being of a generous nature, brought up with an older brother and his sisters now married, he had never had anyone to spend his money on. It filled him with a sense of happiness to think of Christine's face lighting up when she opened the parcels he sent her. She had been brought up in poverty, then in the dormitories of the Opera House, she had never known a time of true safety or security. Even in their earliest years, he had always been uncomfortably aware of the difference in their stations that stemmed not from snobbery, but rather a sincere wish to give her the comforts and luxuries he thought she deserved. From childhood she had deserved riches and jewels worthy of a queen; instead all she had were shells, a battered violin and a faded red scarf.

"What do you mean?" he said, rather confusedly when she finally dared broach the subject of his generosity. "I thought you liked my gifts. Those gowns last week – are they not to your taste? I can always have them altered or return them."

Christine sighed. It had never occurred to her before that, being born into such wealth, Raoul would find it impossible to conceive that anyone might not want to live in equal lavishness. "It isn't that at all, Raoul. Your presents have been wonderful, I cannot tell you how grateful I am –"

"Then where is the problem? You needn't worry that I can't afford them. I have told you that money is not a concern."

"I don't want you to feel obliged to buy me anything. I am perfectly happy as I am. I love _you,_ Raoul, not diamond encrusted chokers."

Before he could respond, someone entered with a request about flower arrangements, and Raoul was called away, leaving Christine with the helpless feeling that she had achieved nothing at all.

One evening, they paid a visit to both of Raoul's sisters. Unlike the bright, airy, vivacious Meg who would have relished such an opportunity, for the shy Christine, it was something rather to dread than anticipate, as she harboured secret fears of snobbery, knowing she could hardly be considered an ideal match for the Vicomte de Chagny. Had she but known it, she need not have had any cause for concern. Raoul was the youngest of his family and had spent his life being indulged by his two elder sisters. Indeed, it struck them as thrillingly romantic that he had been swept off his feet – by an actress, no less! It was exciting enough to add a dashing, impulsive streak to his character without fear of a scandal tainting their reputation. They adored their brother, though thinking him rather dull, if sweet boy. This news was enough to make him interesting again.

For Christine, humiliation came from another quarter. Raoul, despite having no qualms about her modest attire when they were alone together, said that company required something a little more fitting and had requested that she wear the finest gown she now owned. Consequently, that evening, Christine stared at herself in the mirror, thinking she looked like a dressed up doll. She felt lost amidst ruffles and flounces; the brightly coloured silks and velvets were in her opinion gaudy and overdone. Additionally, the dress was low cut enough to make her modest nature balk slightly at wearing it. La Carlotta might be able to carry off such an ensemble with aplomb, but she, Christine Daae felt merely foolish. Adding insult to injury, one of the maids powdered her face, added colour to her lips and piled her hair in a heavy, perfumed, decorated mass above her head until the reflection that gazed back at her was barely recognisable as her own. She thanked heaven Madame Giry could not see her. Even Meg had raised a delicately plucked brow at her appearance.

The appreciation in Raoul's eyes changed to faint bewilderment when he saw how solemn and distant Christine was when she appeared. The expression was one uncharacteristically adult on her sweet, gentle face. She made no mention of the cause of her discomfort, determined to get the formality over with. Both women were perfectly kind, paying her every kind of delicate compliment. They thought her 'a darling', 'sweet' and 'adorable'. It only merely added to her embarrassment and the conviction she was being made a pet of. She wondered if this was what she was to expect, being the wife of the Vicomte de Chagny. It had never – foolishly she now realised – occurred to her before. It all seemed so horribly… _superficial_. She shook away the horribly ungrateful thought. She was marrying Raoul because she loved him. That was enough. But a small part of her wondered that, while she was ready to become the wife of Raoul, was she really ready to become the Vicomtesse de Chagny?

* * *

To Christine, the highlight of those busy, frustrating, endearing months was a three-week trip they took to Perros-Guirec. She was beginning to feel stifled in Paris and found herself yearning for the that place of childhood memories in a way she did not understand.

Her dreams had turned almost unvaryingly to the sea. In those dreams she lay amid high-crested waves as great plumes crashed and tumbled around her. Her dark hair streamed around her like tangled seaweed. The gale drenched her with foam and crystal and grist, driftwood buffeted her between the roar of the waves, the bells and drums and birds that wheeled and soared between the white-tipped caps. The wild melodies lulled her, soothed her, and above her floating form the sky opened and poured down salt rain. The storm passed overhead, great rolling clouds of blue and green and black and silver. The waves rose higher still, the towering depths vast and endless, threatening the swallow her whole. The water was cold as ice and something lurked in the subterranean depths, something that would rise from the deeps and devour her.

And then she would awake.

Raoul was only too eager to comply with her request to visit Perros. He had harboured private concerns, noting Christine's healthy complexion had begun to pale and realised the stress of preparing a wedding must be taking its toll on her. The thought of briefly escaping the engagements at home was not an entirely unappealing prospect for him, either. He was starting to realise just how much Philippe had had to cope with, running the de Chagny estate. To take a trip away where he need not worry about such responsibilities for a time came as a welcome relief.

Those weeks later held an almost dreamlike quality to them. Perros was one of those wonderful places that had been untouched since their childhood, and still held an elusive, haunting enchantment of youth that time had done little to dispel. They passed the days walking along the shoreline and sat amongst the dunes at sunset engaged in a series of 'do you remembers'.

"Do you remember when we secretly took the flat into the sea and it capsized?"

"Do you remember when Papa told us that if you follow the path the moon makes along the water, it leads to a door, and beyond, marble halls with adamant pillars and diamond floors?"

"Do you remember the day you cried when your fiddle broke, so we tried to fashion a new one from rushes and driftwood?"

The visit was more healing to Christine than any of the shopping trips and trivial pursuits in Paris. That last night came all too quickly for her. They stole away to the beach at twilight, and found it uncommonly deserted as the brooding atmosphere promised of a storm to come. They were left alone with nature and each other.

Christine stood still, unwilling to move in case by doing so, the spell and beauty of the evening would be lost. The stinging spray settled itself over her hair and she turned her face to it, inhaling the salty tang. The sea was beating against the shore, the white crests of waves visible a brief instant before exploding in frothy plumes. The crash of water against the rocks that led into crystalline caves was raw, thunderous, untamed. Raoul had always preferred the beach in its calmer moods, when they were able to go right into the sea as children and afterwards lay out on the sand, dripping wet to dry in the sun. But Christine loved something about the storm – the clash and the violence and the struggle – almost persuaded that she could hear the evocative notes of her father's violin lingering between the pounding waves and the wild, wild wind. At night, she and her father would curl up, listening to the tempest, and he would calm her fears but sitting the little girl on his lap and telling her stories. There was no need to fear the storm, for it would not stop the Angel coming, he once said. In fact, the Angel of Music loved the storm, for he would use the crashing waves as his symbols, the wailing wind as his flute; his melodies were clearly audible to those who would listen. Ever since then, Christine had been entranced by the sea in its wilder moods, and had never feared it since.

The sky loomed dark and sullen overhead, the sea swirling and violent in a myriad of foreboding colours. Sharp cragged rocks rose out of the unplumbed depths, and she recalled with a shiver the stories that had thrilled them through the long nights when the elements beat furiously against the shutters; of mariners and mermaids, of smugglers and sirens and albatrosses and angels. Brine coated her face and neck in a mist as she stood motionless, captivated by the wild. Past and present blurred, entwined, inescapable.

Raoul glanced sidelong and saw the wind had whipped colour into Christine's white skin; her hair was blowing wildly. The sight of it caught his breath. Her eyes were closed; she seemed to be listening intently for some rhythm he could not hear beyond the heavy roaring of the sea, the rush of eddying waves against the shingle, blurred through a mist of spray. He was suddenly almost fearful to disturb her; she appeared to have forgotten his presence, bound by some past dream or reverie.

He laid a tentative hand on her shoulder, turning her slowly to face him. He tasted coral and the salt of the sea on her lips, felt himself drowning in the rolling waves of her hair. Christine, lost in his arms, clung to him and wished this present could last an eternity. That they need never return to Paris, the Chateau and the world of society and convention. That they need not be the Vicomte and Vicomtesse de Chagny, but simply Raoul and Christine. If only those days could return and they could hold onto them forever. Here, she could feel the old ways around her, her father's haunting melodies enduring across the seas. This was the one place where she could utterly capture the past, before grief, before doubt, before fear.

Before Erik.

* * *

Christine looked around the quiet and spacious hallway, its pillars of ribbed wood, white interlaced with blue. Moonlight spilled in through one of the upper windows, casting dappled silver splashes across the marbled floor. The sounds of conversation and refined laughter drifted in from the drawing room and Raoul closed the door quietly so they would not be disturbed. The silence between them was tense, expectant somehow. She pulled her shawl more tightly around her; after the warmth and light of the drawing room, the hall was cool and dark, almost Gothic in atmosphere.

"… I hope you weren't offended," Raoul was saying. "The Dauphine does tend to speak rather freely of such things. She spends too much time with her notorious brother. I could tell you stories about him that even Madame Giry would blush at."

Christine laughed a little, trying to keep her voice light. "I spent enough time at the Opera Populaire to have a certain idea." She opened her eyes innocently. "Is he so very bad?"

"A most infamous rake," said Raoul solemnly. "Someone who has thrown away all sense of propriety and modesty, doing as he pleases, acting only on the impulses of his passions and desires…"

All of a sudden, she felt as weak as a child under his penetrating gaze. "And do you condemn him for that?"

His thumb was tracing a line along her bottom lip. "At the present moment," he said softly. "I can quite understand it…"

Christine shivered as his cool fingers cupped her chin. "I know the feeling."

His kiss was like coming up for air after drowning, wonderfully complete, yet somehow not enough. Christine knew they both felt it; that their feelings had gone beyond the point of a chaste kiss here and there. It was no longer enough. They needed more, more than the limbo of their engagement could offer in its frustratingly unfulfilled state, together and yet _not _together. The fingers that had been gently resting on her chin tightened their hold, deepening the kiss. Christine could dimly hear the thudding of her heart but it was drowned out by the roaring in the ears and the sound of his mouth moving over hers, soft yet all-consuming. Her arms were around his neck, her hands tangling in his hair that felt soft and fine as silk beneath her fingers.

"Christine –" His soft exhalation against her mouth caused a shudder to pass through her. She clung to him more tightly still as the distant voices, the cold hall, fled far away, and there was only this moment, Raoul's hands on her, his muttered whispers, the shaking intensity breaking over her like waves on a beach -

At last, and with a visible effort, he pulled away, stepping back a couple of paces. Christine swayed on her feet, breathing hard. She swallowed half-nervously and looked up at Raoul. His blue eyes had darkened several shades, an expression she had never before seen glowing within their lighted depths. "My guests…" His voice was hoarse.

"I know." Christine sighed, suddenly very lonely and cold outside the circle of his arms.

Raoul cleared his throat, and she could visibly see the effort it took for him to speak calmly. A low, thrilling pulse began to beat at the thought that she could have such an effect on him, a moment later marred by the realisation that such thoughts were sinfully immodest. She had known only one man who lived so flagrantly outside the laws of propriety, and he was –

No. Her feelings for Raoul had no affinity with such base and profane urges as Erik had felt towards her. She had no cause to feel any shame.

"My carriage will pick you up tomorrow around ten," Raoul said. He sounded a little wistful. There were a lot of hours to wait before ten o'clock the next morning.

Christine nodded, and moved reluctantly towards the door, but in a swift movement, he pulled her towards him again. Firm arms wound around her waist. She looked up into his face and was struck by a longing so intense it was almost physical pain. They were both finding it harder and harder to say goodbye at the end of each night.

"I hate you having to leave," he murmured, echoing her thoughts.

"So do I," she admitted. Her trembling hands smoothed down the material of his velvet jacket. "A week until the wedding… it feels like such a long time."

His eyes reflected the cool blue lights of the hall. It was like looking into the bottom of the ocean. The silver moonlight streaming in through the lattice highlighted his smooth features. In the wavering half-light, his face came to her as though like a reflection in water. The strong chin, the determined curve of the jaw, his firm, sensible mouth that betrayed just a hint of stubbornness. His skin was a few shades paler in the dimly lit hall, crescent moon shadows beneath his eyes. He was so handsome it almost hurt to look at him.

"Why do love me?" she said, suddenly.

Raoul started. "I – what?"

"Why do you love me?" she repeated.

He looked at her narrowly. His eyes were brilliant and clear, like cut glass. "Why do you ask?"

She frowned, trying to find the right words. What she wanted to say was very important, very serious. She set her jaw. "I just – I love you so much that it hurts to breathe if you are not with me. And you've been through so much for my sake, I cannot understand why, I feel like I don't _deserve_ –"

Raoul leaned forward and kissed her, kissed her so thoroughly and completely that she could think of nothing else but the tiny pulses of sensation sparking across her skin, the feel of his crushed velvet jacket caught in her clenched fists, his hands curling around the corseted waistline of her gown and drawing her closer to him. She could feel his body pressed against every inch of her, and she was no longer anxious, only aware of a distant falling sensation. Without knowing how it happened, she found her back against the wall, the chill stone causing a shiver to pass through her body. Raoul's hands tightened on her waist as he kissed her with increased urgency, and Christine closed her eyes, feeling as though she were drowning in the chill blue lights of the hall printed in an afterimage against her closed lids. Her nerves sang. She leaned fully into him, trusting only to his hold, and the firm grip of his hands was the only solid thing in this dizzying, falling world –

When he finally released her, Christine had to cling to the lapels of his coat to remain upright. His face was slightly flushed, but his expression was intent, serious.

"Now do you have any doubts?"

Christine felt light-headed. "I… I've forgotten…"

"Good," he said, gently. "Because there is nothing _to _doubt, I promise you that." His hand reached out and stroked her hair with a gesture that was meant to be entirely affectionate, but caused every pulse in her body to jump. "Tomorrow then?"

"Tomorrow," she said.

* * *

"Raoul, it's freezing!" Christine gave an unsteady laugh, clutching her shawl tighter around her neck as she stood on one of the chateau's many balconies, overlooking the darkened gardens. A week before their wedding, the all too brief summer months had been left behind, and now in November, winter was creeping into the grounds. Through the chilly mist, the view outside wavered before her eyes like a dream that begins to fade on waking, or a painting left half abandoned. The scene was washed with faded greys and whites; the only colour was the silver birch that dazzled in the pale moonlight. But the tree was dead, its leaves frail and shrivelled on the frost dusted path. Everything was dead. Or dying.

She turned away from the view, back to Raoul. The sight of dead things unsettled her, bringing the cemetery of her father all too clearly into her thoughts.

At the sound of the sweet, girlish laugh coming from Christine's lips, Raoul smiled. "I've been meaning to give you this for some time now." She found a small box being pressed into her cold hands.

Christine sighed and said gently, "Raoul, I told you there is no need to buy me –"

"Just open it. Please."

She unclasped the metal fastening on the box and lifted the lid. Her breath caught in her throat at the sight of a glittering white pendant ring nestling in the folds of paper. Her fingers took hold of the silver band, lifting it from the box. The gem's many faceted edges flashed in the moonlight, sending out icy rays, beautiful and blinding in their intensity. Christine however, found her gaze drawn upwards into the bluest eyes she had ever encountered.

"I was hoping you would wear it at the wedding." Raoul's voice was very soft.

"Oh Raoul, it's beautiful." She was unable to say anything else, overcome with emotion. But the sincerity, the shining expression in her eyes, must have spoken eloquently for her.

"I felt you should have something to wear, after what happened to the – the other one."

A strangely awkward silence fell between them. Erik's name had barely been mentioned between them these past few months. Christine toyed with the band, while Raoul stared across the balcony for some moments. He drummed his fingers against the balustrade, the muscles of his face rigid with a sudden tension.

"Christine… can I ask you something?"

"What?"

"Why did you give it to him?"

"The what?"

"The ring."

She hesitated. "I don't know. I didn't really think. It all happened so fast."

His voice was light and careless, but his hands gripping the balustrade were trembling. "But, darling, why the ring?"

"I felt sorry for him. I wanted him to know that I forgave him. That we could both move on without bitterness."

"Now it was deliberate, before you didn't think about it." Raoul hated himself for the flash of jealousy that uncoiled, snakelike, in the pit of his stomach but he could not prevent it; nor could he prevent the snide, self-righteous manner in which he spoke. However, it was too late to take the words back.

Christine had faltered an instant. She was on the brink of telling Raoul everything: how she had wanted to hate Erik, how she despised herself for this weakness that even now made a part of her cling to his memory – but Raoul's harsh tone, the priggish accusation in his voice immediately riled her. So instead, she retorted stiffly: "Why this sudden cross examination? I pitied him. That's all. And if you knew what his life was, you would not judge him so harshly."

"That doesn't absolve him," returned Raoul immediately, white faced and tight lipped.

"I would have thought _you_ at least, Raoul, would be able to show some pity, you who can afford to."

"Pity! – to _that_? He's a madman, a murderer. You should hate him, Christine. For God's sake, anyone else in your situation would!"

"Then you know nothing about me!" she cried, angry colour suffusing her cheeks.

Raoul curled his fingers into white-knuckled fists at his sides and made a visible effort to compose himself. _Remember what sort of nightmare she underwent._ Some allowances had to be made. "Please. I don't mean to be insensitive. Of course you've been through a terrible ordeal," he said, the sympathy evident in the sincerity of his voice. Her expression softened. "It is impossible to come out of any such experience entirely unscathed. Naturally, after everything that you endured, you must have been affected… damaged."

Christine's eyes flashed at once. "_Damaged_?"

An expression flickered across his face for an instant: haggard, fierce, despairing. It almost made her feel sorry for him, but the white-hot ripples of anger running through her body were dispelling the last tattered remnants of her patience. "So I'm incapable of thinking rationally, is that it?"

Raoul passed his hands through his hair in a helpless gesture. Why on earth had he started this argument? He reached out an imploring hand but Christine snatched herself away, glaring out over the balcony. He closed his eyes, aware of a crushing sense of guilt and frustration. When he finally spoke, he sounded tired, terribly so. "I'm just saying I think your feelings for him are clouding your judgment, preventing you from seeing what he really is."

His words had an unprecedented effect on her; she whirled round to face him accusingly. "Feelings? _Feelings_? I cannot believe this! I cannot believe you are actually jealous of him! This petty rivalry is beneath you, Raoul."

"I think I have some cause to be jealous." His bitter voice cut through her more sharply than the surrounding frost. "For three months – _three months,_ Christine! – you locked yourself away! Are you telling me in all that time you never once felt anything for him?"

Her voice wavered, catching painfully in her throat. "I have never lied to you, Raoul. Never. I have always tried to be honest with you."

"Then tell me this – honestly." His painful resolve to remain calm was fast crumbling away in the desperate need to _know, _once and for all_._ "Do you love him?"

"How can you even ask me that?"

His heart seemed to be caving in on itself. That wasn't a denial. "Do you?"

Christine fought the urge to burst into tears. She had broken down too many times already; she refused to do so again. "If you really need to ask me that _now_, after everything we've been through, then it won't make any difference whatever I tell you! We are to be married within a week, Raoul! Is that not answer enough? But since you need more proof, then consider this. Why did I agree, at great personal risk, to betray him? Why was I living in fear throughout that time? Why was I paralysed with dread at the thought he might be driven to kill you in a jealous rage?"

"Christine, you told me all you wanted was to be free of him, but the moment I had a chance to kill him in the cemetery, you prevented me. Why?" It sounded as though he had wanted to ask this question for months.

"Because that would make you as bad as him!" she returned, her voice high-pitched and desperate. "Nothing more than a murderer. And I cannot believe I am having to justify my actions to you. I have given you _everything, _Raoul! What more could you possibly want from me?"

"I want to be _sure,_ Christine! Believe me, I am trying to see your point of view here, but I just can't."

"Well if that's what you want, then maybe you should find yourself someone a little less _damaged_!" She turned and fled back indoors, making sure the door behind her was closed before she gave way to the pent-up storm of furious tears.

Raoul made a hesitant movement towards her retreating figure, but the slamming door settled the matter. After several numbed minutes, he finally went indoors and made his way towards a seat, pale and shaken by their argument. His trembling hand reached towards the decanter of red wine on the table, indifferent whether or not a servant came in to see. He had been subject to enough gossip since February, by now he didn't even care what people said about him. He was preoccupied with other, more depressing thoughts.

By God… whatever had possessed him to start such a confrontation within days of their wedding? He was a damned fool, consumed by his own jealousy. He stared out of the window. The stars and moon glittered in the dark sky, hard and cold. Christine had been nothing but sweetness and kindness throughout their engagement. But then why this evasiveness about Erik? Why could she not seem to shake off his cursed influence? She hadn't admitted she loved him, but she hadn't exactly denied it, either. Was she still possessed by this magnetism, this compelling force that had always drawn her to him? He had heard the power of that voice in _Don Juan_. Had stood by helpless, having to trust only to Christine's professed loyalty that she would carry out what needed to be done. Once they had left the lair of that fiend, he had thought the hideous chapter in their lives was finished. So why, after nine months, was it returning to haunt them?

* * *

Anger and incredulity had driven Christine to the streets of Paris, the twisting streets following her turbulent state of mind. Her cheeks were burning with colour in contrast to the icy temperature of the November night. Snow swirled around her in dizzying, blinding flurries. Christine closed her eyes, wishing it would bury her in cold and enveloping silence. She was unable to face the thought of returning to the Girys', not until she had recovered her composure. She knew Madame Giry would immediately be able to tell something was wrong, and she could not bring herself to divulge a confession, not yet. Maman would raise her eyebrows knowingly, and immediately give some pithy, hard-hitting piece of advice. The thought of Meg's emphatic bewilderment was equally unbearable. Right now, she wished them both a thousand miles away. And as for Raoul…

She felt numbed with disbelief at this quarrel that had erupted so quickly between them. Whatever had happened to those former days in which they had been in easy accordance with everything? They had had minor disagreements before, but nothing like this. _Which of us has changed_, she thought in bewilderment, _and in Heaven's name, why?_ She couldn't believe it had come to this. She had really thought they could move beyond Erik's influence, but what if they couldn't? Clearly, too much had been left unsaid throughout their engagement. She could sense, throughout their argument, the resentment that had been brewing beneath the surface all this time. It had been almost a relief to finally give vent to her feelings.

Was it her fault? She had thought Raoul incredibly selfish, stubbornly refusing to understand her feelings. She had forgotten how infuriating he could sometimes be. At his best, he was gallant and charming, and in those times she loved him more than anything in the world. But at his worst, he could be nothing more than a pompous, self-righteous prig. His jealousy had come as the greatest shock to her. She had encountered jealousy in Erik, of course – murderous jealously – but to have it from Raoul, who was normally so generous, good natured and understanding… perhaps it was some irredeemable fault of her own that had reduced him to this. All she had ever tried to do was be honest with him. And this is where it had left her. Alone, unprotected, in the cold streets of Paris. The realisation was a sobering one. She began to feel uneasy. There were only certain types of women who ventured out unchaperoned at this time of night. It attracted the wrong sort of attention.

Her fears appeared to be confirmed when a carriage drew up alongside the pavement. Christine pulled her shawl over her face and began walking faster, but the chaise continued to follow her quite deliberately. However, when she glanced back and caught sight of the white horse driving it, she felt a wave of relief. She recognised the beast from the stable as belonging to one of the drivers at the chateau, having fed it apples on many an occasion.

"François," she said softly, with a reluctant smile.

She hurried toward the carriage, eager to get in from the cold, booted feet leaving crusted imprints on the snowy pavement. She was touched that Raoul had been concerned enough to send a brougham after her and half annoyed at his presumption. However, it was too late to direct the cab back to the Chateau. There was nothing to do but return to the Giry's flat and talk to Raoul in the morning. The driver leapt down from the horse, heavily cloaked and hooded in the chilly November night. "It's quite alright, François," she called out. "I can let myself in."

The driver continued to come nearer, offering her a hand, but some immediate and inexplicable instinct warned her that this was not the driver from the Chateau.

"Oh, I'm sorry!" she exclaimed quickly, backing away slightly. "I made a mistake. I thought –"

Suddenly, his gloved hand descended over her mouth, while an arm wrapped around her waist, bearing her indomitably towards the carriage. Fear – heart stopping fear – slammed against her ribs. Christine attempted to scream, but the hand pressed more firmly against her mouth with a force that was painful, and no more sound escaped her than a terrified moan. She was not so petrified as to lose herself entirely however, and struggled with every ounce of energy she possessed. But the assailant was too strong for her, lifting her off her feet, seemingly impervious to the desperate blows she attempted to inflict with her hands and feet. He – for the strength in his arms and the width of the shoulders under the cloak told her it must be a man – wrenched the door open, and set her down on a seat, surprisingly gently. He had not struck her once, despite her struggles. Christine took advantage of the momentary tenderness to catch his foot with her hands and pull it from behind him and he stumbled. Seeking to grasp a hold, he caught at her arm and both fell onto the floor of the coach.

They fought properly then, or at least she did, possessed by blind animal panic. Her fingernails may have dashed against something, for there was a sharp intake of breath, but her feet were entangled in heavy folds of material – either her dress or his cloak – and she could not move them. Struggling, fighting, her hands caught his face for an instant, but then he had rolled her onto her side, and pinned between his body and the seat of the coach, she was trapped. He had caught her beneath his weight; she trying to strain away from him, unable to cry out, for the fall had winded her. She lay still then, her heart thundering against her ribcage, eyes closed and waiting for the worst. He leaned over her, breathing heavily in the darkness of the carriage's interior. Several agonising seconds passed in which Christine hardly dared move. When she finally ventured to open her eyes, it was to realise that the man had gone – and the door to the brougham was closed.

Fingers gingerly feeling her bruised side, she crawled slowly to her feet, only to almost lose her balance once more as the carriage lurched forward. The brougham was swaying from side to side; she could hear the clatter of wheels against the cobblestones, the hoof beats of the horse. He was driving her, driving her away – where? Desperate now, she threw herself against the door, beating at the window with her bare fists. Breathing was painful still but she tried to scream, screaming until her throat was raw, but for all the sound that came out she need not have wasted her energies. But someone surely, must hear her? Someone, anyone, please –

Her hands were numb with cold, but in the dark she could see her knuckles were bleeding from the pounding they had received. She pressed her face against the window, her unsteady breath misting the glass. How had this happened? She had seen that horse before, but not, she realised suddenly with an overwhelming sense of horror and terrible inevitability, from the Chateau, but as one of the beasts used in the Opera's production of the _Profeta_ –

The Parisian streets were deserted, and still the carriage bore her unremittingly onward. Finally, shaken and exhausted, she slid onto the seat and lay unmoving. A jolting pain throbbed along her waist at the vehicle's erratic motion. Her fingers were sticky with blood. A dull ache had taken possession of her, and Christine closed her eyes, caring little what became of her. She slid in and out of oblivion.

* * *

The cold night air stung her face.

The sudden shock acted as a stimulant, bringing the conscious world back to her slowly. Christine opened her eyes, catching a fleeting glimpse of moonlight on the frosted ground, and – more curiously still – playing across the surface of water. It was then she realised she was being carried in someone's arms. Full memory rushed back into her mind, full sensation flooded through her limbs. She stiffened and opened her mouth to shout, call for help. The man must have sensed this abrupt change in her formerly apathetic form, for he set her down on the ground, one hand still maintaining a firm hold of her waist.

"You need not call for help," he said coolly, voice muffled against the voluminous folds of his hood. "We are quite alone. I have no wish to hurt you."

Christine was about to disregard this piece of information and scream and scream, when a wad of material was pressed against her face. Her first panic stricken thought was that he would attempt to gag her, but the moment she inhaled, a feeling of light-headedness overwhelmed her, she seemed to be falling… _drugged!_ she thought dimly, struggling in helpless fury against this drowsiness stealing through her body, clouding her senses. Her captor was drifting out of focus. He was speaking to her, soft words that were becoming more and more indistinct. She could no longer feel her body, nor move, nor speak. With her remaining energy, her lips formed one vague word.

_Erik._

Then an enveloping wave of darkness came upon her and she was lost.


	4. Love Sickness

**The Mask and Mirror**

_I know I should go  
But I follow you like a man possessed  
There's a traitor here beneath my breast  
And it hurts me more than you've ever guessed  
If my heart could beat, it would break my chest_

(Spike, Rest In Peace, Buffy the Vampire Slayer 'Once More With Feeling')

Chapter 4

The melancholy, evocative notes of the organ died away, echoing faintly in the cavernous interior of the softly lit dwelling. A leather-gloved hand ran absently over the frosted ebon and ice keys, the ornate mahogany of the exquisitely carved instrument, the gold pipes that reverberated with the lingering strains of solemn sound.

Erik stood up and sighed. He could not concentrate on his music, knowing that across from him lay Christine, lost in the depths of a soporific sleep. Darkly gloved hands clenched into leathern fists. The desire to pull back the gossamer red curtains that shrouded the swan bed he had gently placed her in and watch her in slumber, was overwhelming. It was probably the closest he could ever come to her now. Gone was that precious bond of trust he had so carefully and painstakingly built up over many months, shattered in a single moment. In that instant, his soul, hope, and very existence had withered to ashes and dust. The ardent devotion she had once felt for him had turned to bitter tears and loathing. But still he could not let go. He would not.

_Hate me, curse me, despise me - only let me be near you!_

No, he would see to it that they could recover what had been lost. It was his only chance of salvation.

Diamond shards of splintered glass cracked underfoot, splitting into many faceted crystals as he walked with long practised quietness. There was still much evidence of the damage done by himself and the enraged crowd that had sought him out, to hunt him down, destroy him. Of course he had escaped. Had he not done so many times before? He knew well how to make himself disappear, even without the assistance of magic. Europe was a large enough place to hide in, whether it was the imperial magnificence of St Petersburg or the sun-scorched narrow streets of Granada. And so he had wandered madly - without course, without direction. The rocky paths of the Caucasus, the dusty Spanish plains, the dark forests of Austria-Hungary. It was all one and the same. Perhaps he should have walked further. He could have walked to Jerusalem and let the sands cover him. A grimace of bitter irony tugged at his mouth. He would have made a poor pilgrim. No, he was Melmoth, he was Manfred, cursed to wander this earth pursued by the power and passions of past evils that would never leave him. Even now, they ravaged his being and whispered cruel remembrances that tortured him in the long hours of night. Only night lay in his soul now, and its completeness was like the shroud of death.

And so he had come back here. Led by the impulses of his treacherous heart, abandoning reason, caution and all common sense. Unable to abate the intolerable flame she awoke within him. He was bound by this endless longing, this doomed obsession. He would not waste away in some foreign land. Not while she existed and he had the chance to be close to her. He ached to be beside her. To see those eyes - dark, haunted, heartbreaking - look upon him once more, to pierce him with a thousand emotions.

He had to see her. God knows, he had tried to keep away, but his will was utterly enslaved. He had travelled the surface of the earth and it was insufficient to drive her from his mind. He had sighed and wept and screamed himself hoarse. He had cried enough tears to drown the world. Prayed for fate to render him dumb and frozen, to seal his emotions in a tomb that might never be opened. He had laughed at the storms and lightning strikes that tore apart the hot Spanish skies, had borne the devastating colds of Russia with its snows that could bury a man. It could not touch him - _for one cannot die who is already dead -_

He had known fury and despair, unbearable solitude and darkness deeper than death. Devoid of her, he was barren and cold. _You are all that ties me to this miserable world. This chain that agonises and sustains me. _He only wished to be cured or die - no, he was lying to himself. He wished for her to love him as he did her - completely, passionately, desperately. _I do not want your pity - only your complete and utter devotion._

Was he in her thoughts at all? Did she ever think of him? Even to return to those early days of their first encounters was no longer enough. He did not wish to be despised, but neither could he find any solace in being thought of merely as some distant, holy being, adored and revered from afar. He ached to have Christine love him for himself, not merely view him as an angel of light or a demon of darkness. Yet how could she see him otherwise? His spirit soared as high as Ariel and his body clawed at the earth like Caliban. The evidence of that was before him, in this illumined Hades he walked through, the relics of Apollonian beauty lying in wanton destruction around him. He walked between shards and mirrors.

His world had been demolished, reduced to a smouldering ruin and his heart burned with the injustice of it. This place had been a hell, but one of his own construction, ringing with the burning splendour of his music. In this realm, he had once been creator and god, wielding authority and unimaginable power. After all, _better to reign in hell than serve in heav'n. _But even this had been taken from him. _Will they not even give me a place of my own to live out my last days in misery? _Hatred flared within him, the consuming longing for vengeance. War. Destruction. Retribution. The memory of the fire burned behind his lowered lids; his forbidding features darkened beneath the mask. _I am an angel, and I _will _have justice._

He had done his best to clear much of the wreckage but progress had been slow, and he was still unsure how long he planned to remain in Paris. All the mirrors had been smashed from their frames, many of the draperies had been torn down and the beautifully carved models he had worked on so tirelessly were destroyed. A few of his sketches and portraits remained but were ruined by the scorched traces of footprints, fire and water. Thankfully, his organ – his pride and joy – had been left untouched. And once the candles had been lit, their lambent glow casting a soft dusky illumination on the cavernous walls, his labyrinthine home began to resume something of its old familiarity. Surrounded by the flickering shadows and the sonorous echo of that spellbinding music he loved so much, with Christine's soothing presence; it was almost enough to make him believe that things could be as they once were.

Erik felt a piercing stab of remorse at the thought that he might have harmed her last night. He would never willingly lay a hand on her, never. No matter how passionately or desperately he might burn for her, she was safer lying in his domain asleep than anywhere else in Paris. If the whole world was on fire, he would watch it burn if by doing so, he could ensure her safety. But to think how roughly he must have handled her last night! Could she forgive him for this, another act of evil and cruelty against her whom he would die to protect? Could he forgive himself? The conflict between angel and demon was a source of constant torment within him. And all because of this face he was cursed to carry with him always, that forced him to remain a stranger to the endless swarms of people he walked among. Well, so be it. He had not needed them. Not with the divine and elemental strains music to warm his dying heart. Once, he had thought that was enough. But that was before he had _seen her._

He had been in Paris only three days, but in those hours had been haunted by her everywhere. The turn of a dark head, a gloved elbow, the trail of a white gown along the pavement. She was in a voice, the curve of a shoulder, a manner of walking. Every stranger that passed by piercing his heart with cruel reminders of her. He was surrounded by ghosts and shadows of her that leapt out amid the faceless crowds of people.

Until -

He _had _seen her, at last.

At the Rue de Bac, stepping out of a carriage laughingly, she had turned her head - her joyful expression seemed to falter for an instant - but on seeing nothing amiss, she smiled once again and addressed a few breathless comments to the Vicomte who merrily caught her hand, pressing an affectionate kiss to those slender white fingers. The easy affection of the gesture caused the blood to boil in Erik's veins. In that moment, he thought he would die of hatred. Erik's hooded eyes darkened with predatory intent. _If we meet again, it will be a reckoning for him. He will feel the full fury of the dark power he has awoken. I will tear out his young, foolish heart before resigning her to his caresses. _

He knew that it was only by removing the pervasive influence of the Vicomte and allowing Christine to see him alone - without smoke, without mirrors, without lies - that he could hope to persuade her to care for him. These past months had changed him. She must surely see that. His act of self-sacrifice had proven that he could be a good man. It had been a constant struggle through internal madness and torment. But he had emerged with the belief that he could change - if she would _let _him. He would allow himself to be humbled, restrained, gentle even. Erik was aware of this growing weakness and it filled him with terror, but if Christine were prepared to see the good in him, he would cultivate it, God, even welcome it. He would do anything she asked of him.

_Do you hear me, Christine? I repent - I recant - I will do whatever is required to gain your forgiveness, even if I am frail and dying and can barely hear the words pass from your lips -_

It was only through her that he could hope to achieve redemption for the darkness and degradation that had been his life. Thievery, torture, abduction, murder, by God… lurking down here all those years, deprived of all warmth and light and companionship, was it any wonder he had become something savage and wild, choking on the sense of his own sin and corruption? Until she had come. Like a ray of elusive light piercing the veils of darkness and despair, giving him a glimpse of something he had never thought to experience. Hope. No one else other than Nadir was prepared to even consider that there might be a soul behind the mask. Nadir. Erik felt the familiar mingled emotions of affection and irritation at the name. The recollection of the Persian's surprised face when he turned up on his doorstep at the Rue de Rivoli the previous day flared vividly in his memory -

_Nadir staggered backwards, an aged, dark hand gripping the door frame. "Erik!" he exclaimed, an expression of startlement etched on those distinctive foreign features._

"_Well, are you going to let me in, Daroga? I never was one for exchanging pleasantries, you know."_

_The Persian automatically stepped aside, allowing the masked man to cross the threshold. On entering, Erik saw that the small apartment was just as he remembered it; a microcosm of the exotic with its luxuriant rugs and silk hangings and sumptuous collection of Middle Eastern ornaments adorning the shelves. He could smell the cloying dregs of hashish lingering beneath the aroma of burnt incense and the curling threads of brewed coffee that clouded the heavy air. He drew a sharp breath at the strength of it. It brought back too many memories, memories he wished to forget._

"_I suppose it is asking too much to be offered a seat? Refreshment perhaps?" He turned away slightly awkwardly as Nadir continued to stare uncomprehendingly at him with those soft, dark, melancholy eyes. "Perhaps not, then."_

"_Erik… why are you… when… where have you been?"_

_Erik sank onto a cushioned divan, uninvited. "Europe mostly. Everywhere you can imagine." His voice was wearied. His journeying had not been a pleasant experience and he had no wish to dwell on it._

_The older man took a seat across from him with one of those typically languid, effete gestures, ringed hands clenched in his lap. "You've… been back long?"_

"_Last night, actually." Erik released a breath of barely concealed frustration. He was bitter, wearied and heartsick, in no mood to engage in small talk. "Look, I will be honest with you, Daroga. This isn't a social call. In fact, I came because…" he hesitated. "I need to ask a favour of you."_

_Nadir knew Erik well enough to recognise the sullen resentment in his voice as he said this. Erik loathed anything that betrayed the fact he was anything less than utterly self-reliant. This uncharacteristic display of near-politeness made him immediately wary. Anything that Erik saw important enough to ask a favour for was dubious in itself. He braced himself, preparing for the worst._

"_What is it you want?"_

_Erik was twisting his hands in his lap, his grimly shadowed gaze fixed on the circular table in the centre of the small lounge. In Persia, he had seen poisons served off such tables. "I want to borrow your carriage."_

"_My –?"_

"_Yes, Daroga, your carriage!" he snapped impatiently. "And you needn't suspect anything underhand. My stay here is only temporary. I merely need a vehicle to transport some belongings I wish to pick up from the Opera House."_

"_Well, I suppose I could oblige..."_

"_You needn't act so suspicious. Is it so wrong to actually want to reclaim a few of my possessions? Those that haven't been destroyed, of course. I have some very valuable items down there I wish to retrieve. My rather, ah, hasty departure didn't leave me much time for packing, so my ways of living these last few months have not always been – shall we say? – entirely honest."_

"_You mean you've been stealing."_

"_Oh don't look so disapproving, Daroga. You're not a constable anymore. And no, not all the time. I found work with a travelling group of players for several weeks in Monte Carlo. The acting industry always loves a sensation. I assure you, I was a phenomenal one. Then I took up with some refugee gypsies in Austria-Hungary, doing magics, idle tricks that would convince no one but peasants. But otherwise, yes, I stole. Funnily enough, a conscience becomes less influential when it's a choice between taking bread from a market place or starving. In Persia, you may have been happy enough to overlook such minor indiscretions, however…" The mask did not move, but the Persian sensed the derisive sneer beneath its immobile porcelain surface. "I can't always expect such generous oversight from the authorities."_

_The older man ignored the intended jibe and asked evenly. "Where do you plan on going?"_

_Erik sighed heavily, solemn and troubled once more. "I'm not entirely sure. Russia has made the prospect of facing a cold winter rather unappealing. I want to see _sun_ again, Nadir, feel its heat on me. I want to travel over foreign lands I've never seen before, see if I can't yet hope to find something beautiful left in this world. There is a berth travelling to Algeria in a few days. I plan to be on board when it does."_

"_Africa?"_

"_I think Europe has become too small. I wish to start again, somewhere new, away from the past. Away from everything."_

_Nadir leaned heavily on the arm of his chair. He looked up at his sometime friend, dark eyes filled with emotion. "I misjudged you, Erik. I confess when I first saw you here, I thought… I thought that coming back to Paris was part of some foolhardy scheme to go chasing after Christine Daae again. I'm so glad I was wrong. Will you forgive me?"_

_Erik's clenched hands convulsed slightly beneath the billowing folds of his dark cloak._

"_You did a very noble thing, letting her go," continued the Persian quietly._

"_I still cannot understand why I did." The words left him with the sharpness of a lash, swift and bitter._

"_You loved her. You loved her so much that you were prepared to do anything for her happiness, even if it meant sacrificing your own. That is love in its truest and most sublime form, Erik. And if you doubt your decision, let this decide for you."_

_He unfolded a newspaper cutting. It was only a small section, announcing the forthcoming wedding of the Vicomte de Chagny to Christine Daae. There, in clear-cut black letters, were the words that would mean the end of his existence. Erik felt the blood pounding in his ears. The incense scented room blurred before him in a haze. He could see nothing around him. There was a storm brewing inside him, wild and uncontrollable. Now it was written, made real, hard black against endless white, he understood what it meant. In a brief moment of clarity, he turned his unmasked profile away to hide the agonised, furious expression he knew must betray him if it were seen._

"_She is moving on with her life, Erik. Now you can move on with yours." Nadir's voice was very kind._

_Erik stood up quickly. He could not stand this any longer. "Where is your carriage kept?" he asked abruptly._

"_Outside. Let me show you. Will you need any help transporting your luggage?"_

"_That won't be necessary," Erik muttered, barely aware of what he was saying. He felt himself move stiffly, half-blindly towards the door, conscious only of the urgent need to be alone. He must go at once. He must not have Nadir see him like this. _

_He was halfway across the threshold when he felt a hand descend on his arm. He found himself staring into Nadir's prematurely lined, painfully trusting face. That honest smile struck him like a fatal blow to his heart. He almost groaned and clutched his chest, but he was paralysed._

"_I'm proud of you, Erik."_

Shaking away the feelings of guilt that the memory of the encounter invariably gave him, Erik moved with the silence and stealth of a predator until the silken red drapes were within a hand's breadth. He realised he was shaking violently. He dreaded the very thing he longed for. His head was bowed penitently as though he stood at the shrine of something sacred. But eventually, desire and desperation won over discretion and he tremblingly pulled the gauzy veil aside.

Like a beautiful spirit, pale and still as Elaine drifting silently down the river, she slept. He half imagined her to be truly formed of the angelic spirit she captured in her music that soared upwards into boundless spheres and touched the threshold of heaven. An ache of longing passed through him. _Tell me when you last sang thus, when your soul left your body and transported you to unimaginable heights that would leave you weeping to come back to yourself, tell me…_

Music roared through his mind and body, as loud and thunderous as the raging winds and trumpet blasts that would herald the final battle. It seemed he could feel the earth turning beneath his feet; his head spun. His heart was pounding so hard he thought he would choke on its constricting spasms. Time and absence had not lessened the yearning, desperate passion he had harboured these long years. The shock of actually looking upon her once more, the sensation like a blinding pain in his heart, was bound with a furious sense of powerlessness. _Always, the ecstasy and the agony._ Christine Daae. What power in heaven or hell did she hold over him?

His darkly possessive gaze was filled with passion and longing as he traced with a sense of bliss and wonderment and yearning heartache, her familiar profile, its dearly remembered contours and fluid movements that were ingrained so fully in his being that for a moment he reflected if this was how God felt when watching His creation; the unique sensation of intimacy and detachment. To watch her while she was so oblivious to his presence was something that had not happened since the days she had still believed him to be an angel. Like one parched, he drank in the sight of her as though drawing life from the atmosphere she breathed, from the places she knew, the objects she touched. For the present, it was enough. For some moments he was lost in quiet contentment. To merely be in her presence was one of the greatest pleasures he had experienced in his bitter life. Pleasure was but a dream he had imagined too many winters ago. Frail, fleeting, transient. When being a ghost was the closest he had come to being truly _alive_. But those days were long ago. _I could have watched you sing forever. _But fate, madness, destiny, had impelled him to reveal himself, and to start this chain of destruction that would never end.

And so disquiet began to steal through him, marring that brief sense of serenity, bringing with it that despairing knowledge that all bliss is transient; that nothing ever lasts. The source of this came from the growing realisation that he was looking upon a Christine that was altered.

The innocent girl he had loved beyond all reason in the Opera House had matured into a slender, serious-eyed young woman who lay so still and solemn. A subtle change – imperceptible to one who did not know her so dearly as he did – had come over that beloved form. The startlingly fair complexion was as smooth as he remembered, the coronet of dark curls still lustrous and wild; no, it was the expression that was so altered, and that caused him to raise a gloved hand to his mouth in silent bewilderment.

The face he looked upon now was not quite the same as the one filled with such anguish as she had turned away from him here nine months ago. That fragile, desperate loveliness was being subtly overwritten with a fine tracery of frost, the calm solemnity of resignation. The youthful, dreamy expression that he had loved was pensive now, and grave. The gentleness was still there, he perceived; but shadowed by a chill, a coldness that all the riches and fine adornments in the world could not hope to dispel. She was starting to lose those unique elements that made her so exquisitely Christine, those hopeful dreams that illumined her with such a wild grace of imagination. He could see there were no glimpses of transcendence, no lofty flights of visionary spirit in her heart. _She has given up on dreams._

Where was she? Where was she now? That spiritual ingénue filled with such pity, humility and tenderness? When had her heart begun to grow cold? When had such gravity appeared on her calm, still brow?

_I will make things as they once were between us. Oh, my poor angel! How have you survived without music to sustain your soul?_

Had he ever known her in a time before grief? What would she have been like in those years before she had experienced loss, when she was fresh and fair and free? Would she have always been smiling, her eyes flashing with the same unguarded innocence that Erik witnessed with jealous fury in the gaze of her unworthy Vicomte?

A consuming light flared in his shadowed eyes. The voices of his inner demons ever in his ears. She was his alone - _no _man would possess her… he would see himself _damned _before resigning her to the soft clutches of that _boy - _he would rain down the all the vengeance of _hell _first and it would be terrible -

_Fate links thee to me for ever and a day. _He pressed a gloved hand to his wildly pounding heart. _And I will never, ever leave you._

He did not dare move his eyes from her. No, he would sit a vigil beside her through the night, remain at her side until the candles burned into blackness. Nothing would touch her while she slept. He could not bring himself to awaken her, to disturb the calm serenity of her soul. The image of her in his mind's eye would dispel the gloom that filled his lonely nights. The sole warmth in his cold, dark world. He did not sleep - only endured nightmares. It granted him no respite from the fierce and stormy emotions that consumed him. But she - his sole consolation, his beloved comforter - could keep his demons at bay.

Erik was so overwhelmed by love that even the sight of her lying before him caused him to feel no lust. Those torturous pangs had smouldered within him unnumbered times in silence and solitude, but now the very thought seemed a sacrilege. He was lost in her loveliness. The glimpse of a smooth, white elbow stunned him. The dark halo of her hair falling wildly over her shoulders struck him speechless with its sublime perfection. Her lips parted in a holy kiss. He recalled it still with burning clarity, her delicate, frosted fingers clasping his face as she pressed those lips to his in a touch of blazing communion. The sweetest surrender he had ever known. Oh, that he could have died then… his last sight in this world being her shining eyes seeing beyond all secular things, glimpsing flashes of immortality in his music -

But his life had not ended there. _I was destroyed but I did not die. _Something weak and cowardly within him had forced him to cling to the shattered remnants of life, even when it was now more empty and bitter than he had ever known. And he did not forget! His love was a cursed love - a _damned_ love - but it was faithful. Neither time nor distance could sever it, much to his fury and despair. _I live - but this is no life. _Since that moment of nameless despair, there had been nothing left to dread. Everything had been taken from him. The resentment burned within him as he gazed at the still, unconscious form on the bed. She had no idea what awaited her. Erik hardened his resolve. Better to die together than live alone. Perhaps the only happiness he would know in this life would be when they lay beneath the earth together where no one could hunt them or hurt them. The bonds of death were unbreakable. _I will have you, Christine - either in this life, or the next._

And yet… his gaze was drawn back to her… oh, she seemed the very embodiment of innocence and purity. A radiant young girl bride condemned to be a sufferer for his sins. He would end up destroying her. Not with his hand, but with his heart. He would love her to death. And what consolation could he gain from her misery and sorrow?

It was too cruel. What right did he have bringing her to this? This whole scheme had been utter madness. If he had any sense he would end this farce, this… freak show of the damned, and return her to her betrothed.

He must release her. He knew he must. He should never have seen her.

Even as he hovered, trapped in indecision, there was a gentle sigh from the bed. Erik reeled, clutching blindly at the billowing draperies. A hundred different emotions seized him, none making any lasting sense or impression. He could only wait, watching in agonised suspense as Christine stirred and her eyes slowly opened.


	5. Awakened

**The Mask and Mirror**

_You used to captivate me  
By your resonating light  
But now I'm bound by the life you left behind  
Your face it haunts my once pleasant dreams  
Your voice it chased away all the sanity in me_

(Evanescence, My Immortal)

Chapter 5

Silken sheets slid like cool water across her bare legs, a luxurious, sensuous and unfamiliar feeling; one she had never experienced during her time in the Giry's apartment. She groaned faintly, pressing herself deeper into the silken depths, dark curls spilling across the vivid crimson as she turned her head against the cold draft that whispered along her skin. The air was as cold as a tomb. Was she at Raoul's? In the fogged depths of bewilderness, her disorientated mind could not understand why this would be… only think… had she stayed overnight at the chateau for some reason? Surely not… not after their… their…

Oh God, their argument!

Christine's eyes opened at once. The first thing to greet her hazy vision was an elegantly carven bed, its domed sides inlaid with intricate designs of baroque gold. Angels arced over the headboard, beautiful, vast-winged and terrible. Opulence spilled among the sheets and pooled in the rich crimson draperies. A soft, glowing light from an unknown source cast a faint gold illumination through the curtains that surrounded her. With a trembling expectancy she did not understand, Christine rose unsteadily, (why was her head so heavy, what was this dizziness that overwhelmed her?) white skirts falling around her legs, and she pulled the hangings slowly aside, only to find herself looking into a pair of eyes full of desperation, eternal loneliness and a ferocity in their burning intensity that pierced her soul -

A cry rose in her throat and died on her lips. She could not describe the emotions that overcame her. Speechless, she stared at the dark figure who was woven into the very soul of her being, an inextricable part of her past that would never release her, never let her go. Her sin and salvation. The coiffed ebony hair, the poet's shirt, the dark and sensual lines of his face concealed by the mask of white porcelain, all as she so painfully remembered. And beneath that, always that _wildness_ - the prowling expectancy of a caged beast always lingering just below the surface -

A sick, pale clamminess stole its way over her palms and forehead. She was breathing, fast and shallow, and she realised with a sense of growing horror that she was probably going to faint at any moment. In order to counter this dangerous sense of light-headedness, Christine tried to speak, but her barely audible words were just as incoherent as the turbulent thoughts that overwhelmed her -

"Erik… you… oh God… oh God…"

Christine had turned so pale Erik had no doubt she was going to faint. He braced himself to step forward and catch hold of her should the occasion arise – and it was not an entirely unwelcoming one to him – when she appeared to master herself slightly. Her slender white hands clenched into fists; the bones showing alarmingly visible beneath the skin. Erik was crippled by the sense of frailty and cursed his helplessness to intervene. She would revile his attempts to help her, or worse, shrink away in fear. He had no rights where she was concerned. _Except to kidnap her away from the man she loves and hold her here against her will. _He cringed at the scornfully brusque thought. All that mattered was that Christine was here. Any part of her, it was enough. He would believe that. He must believe that.

She was gazing at him with a dreadfully blank expression. He stole a deep breath, willing himself to exert a patience not in his nature. She needed time to adapt. But she still did not react, merely remained frozen, speechless, staring at him without comprehension, and he began to feel rather foolish. What had he expected? That she would fall at his feet in ecstasy and beg him to sing for her? He almost wished she would raise her voice at him in anger. Anger he could endure. Anything was better than this terrible apathy. After all, it was indifference, not hatred, that was the true opposite of love. He could have derived some bitter solace from her hatred. Hatred was born of energy. Heat. Fire. Oh, how she had smouldered on that night of _Don Juan_! If he could only rekindle that flame he knew must still be buried deep within her... he would get past this – this barrier of hers he silently cursed the Vicomte as responsible for, adding it as another of the many injuries to be repaid.

However, at Christine's next distant words, he realised he was not facing indifference, but incredulity.

"I thought you were dead."

That voice did not belong to her. It was the voice of a stranger; cold and brittle. There was something hollow and deadened in those subdued tones, like the dying of the year or withered autumn leaves. _Nine months_, thought Christine. Nine months she had resigned herself to the bitter truth that he was gone, _believed _he was gone. That he had met his fate beneath the waters in the opera cellars or perished in the winter snows; an ice angel preserved alone and unmourned. _No tomb for poor, unhappy Erik._ It seemed the inevitable fate for him. She had known it with certainty. But no, she thought suddenly, that wasn't right. Deep down, a part of her had known he wasn't dead – had always known it. She realised that now. The agonised vigil of darkness she had kept in those lonely hours through the night was not the grief of irredeemable loss, but of separation. She had left a part of herself in this cellar and it could never be reclaimed.

_I thought you were dead._ Erik's initial – and comically bizarre – reaction was to feel insulted. Had she honestly thought those inept fools of the Gendarmerie could have made an end of him? He, who had dazzled even the Shah of Persia with his mastery over the supernatural, the magic and the uncanny? But the impact of her words began to set in. He watched her carefully. The shock on her face that he had expected to see supplanted by horror or revulsion was filled only with resignation. The silence stretched between them, so long, so profound that he felt he must speak or they would both be driven mad. Well, he had long ago crossed that threshold. But he hardly wanted Christine tight-ropewalking the thin line of sanity. He knew no words were adequate, so attempted a laugh, trying to make light of the situation.

"Dead? That would be easier wouldn't it? For you, I mean?"

She looked up at him abruptly, dark eyes glistening with flashes of silver moisture that pierced him with the sharp clarity of cut glass. "How can you say that?"

He felt his defences starting to wither in the face of her hurt accusation. "You've given me enough cause to."

"You betrayed me too, Erik." The pain of that old memory rose up within her. It was something she could never forget, never truly forgive him for. She had been a grieving child, and he had stolen in like a thief in the night to take possession of her soul. And there had been no one to defend her, no one to warn her… and now she would never be free of him. She took a step towards him and faltered slightly, as an alarming light-headedness seized her for a moment. She stopped and clung tightly to the curtain, seeking to regain her sense of balance.

"Careful," said Erik quickly, moving towards her in concern. "It isn't advisable for you to make any sudden movements, until the effects of –"

Wounded dark eyes met his. "You drugged me," she said accusingly.

"A necessary precaution. But one I am truly sorry for. Would you have come willingly had I asked?"

Christine's head fell into her hands as though unable to support the unassailable thoughts that oppressed her. "No," she whispered. Erik had already anticipated such a response, knowing any other was utterly inconceivable. The knowledge was a bitter weight within him.

With a sweep of his gloved hand, he beckoned her through into his dwelling, and Christine followed with some trepidation, bracing herself once more to enter that forbidden world, a world that was rich and voluptuous and sensual and dangerous. She recalled it all so clearly; the scent of burning candles and clouded incense, soft lights glowing gold over the water-blurred stone, rippling shadows and the billowing fall of crimson, rich as the hue of a thousand crushed roses. The lulling ambience wrapping itself around her in dream of darkness, beautiful and otherworldly. Even now, it held a deadly power over her.

She wandered along the narrow pathway, almost unconsciously looking around in veiled eagerness for the beautiful objects that adorned his sepulchral home. However, all that met her eyes was wreckage and desolation. The candles merely illuminated the atmosphere of decay and loss and hopeless abandonment. The chill of the mausoleum pervaded the cavernous interior. Even the slight attempts at domesticity; the scores of music that littered the organ, the richly coloured draperies covering the worst of the damage, were woefully inadequate to conceal the destruction that was tantamount everywhere she looked. Christine's heart caught in her throat at the sight of the roses strewn across the table and stone floor, the petals blood-red and vivid in the lambent gloom. She froze, overcome by memories.

_F__ate links thee to me forever and a day..._

The roses… the roses had led her here, the amorous invitation in that black-bound ribbon had drawn her towards the clouded mirror, and she had stepped through so willingly…

"The mirrors…" she murmured, unconscious she had spoken aloud.

Erik shrugged indifferently, a heavy movement of the shoulders beneath the poet's shirt. "I destroyed them. I felt if _you_ could not find beauty in me, then nothing could."

"Oh, _Erik_." He saw pity and fear in the glance she flashed upon him, her compassionate heart battling with the wiser instinct to flee. But she would not run. He would not allow her to. There was no corner of the world where he would not pursue her. He would be _damned _if he was going to give her up again. He would not endure another year in hell. Better her hatred. Better her fear. After all, _fear can turn to love. _And, oh, _such _a love, if she would only give him the chance!

"Do you want to – that is – take a seat." Erik motioned with a hand to one of the chairs, while inwardly writhing in spirit. God, what was the matter with him? Why could he not hold any semblance of command over himself for a single moment? But he knew why. He was enraptured by the graceful, girlish figure that moved like a heavenly muse through this cursed underworld. Each movement of her eyes, the tenderness in her expression with its unique and sublime clarity held him paralysed. Her entire soul showed itself in her features, breathed through every word and gesture. He could watch her forever.

Christine hesitated a moment, then sat down uncertainly on the edge of the rococo chair. A silence ensued which neither seemed able, or willing to break. Thousands of questions rose to her lips, but she could not make sense of them in her mind. Power of speech had, for the present, deserted her. Christine sat very still. The only sound was the gentle lapping of mirrored water against the portcullis. A warm glow of candlelight stole through the parted draperies and highlighted the swirling motes of gold that danced across the stone floor. She watched, without consciously seeing. These were sights and sounds that should not have held any interest for her, yet just sitting and watching delayed that awful moment when she would have to look up at the man before her and admit his existence to herself. Yet she could sense his dark figure standing over her, grim, brooding, waiting. She had forgotten how overpowering his presence was. _This cannot be real. _Yet it was, realer than anything she had ever known, and perhaps it was her engagement that had been the dream all these months. Perhaps she had never left here.

_She must speak soon_, Erik thought. This silence was unendurable. He was almost overwhelmed by the urge to shake her out of this apathy, to shout, _for God's sake, say something!_

At last, she rose to feet, lessening somewhat the disparity in height. Her voice, when she spoke, was quiet, almost detached. It was only the expression in her eyes that betrayed a real sense of emotion behind the words. "Where have you been all this time?"

Erik shuddered. Less than twenty-four hours ago Nadir had asked him that very question, but hearing it from Christine's lips, he was not able to answer with such mocking flippancy.

"I have journeyed through hell, Christine. What details do you wish from that? I hardly know how I lived in those first months. It is all a black darkness to me. But when I came to myself again, I went wherever I could. Wandering, trying to escape from – well, you know from what, though I doubt you know what it is to carry an internal hell with you." He gave a sharp laugh, but there was more cruelty than humour in the sound. "Perhaps you envy me a little. I hear all young people wish to travel. Believe me, Christine, the world is grossly overrated. I have seen things you cannot even imagine. Some you probably shouldn't."

She cringed at the bitterness in his voice. "Have you – I mean, did you… suffer?"

"Would you even care if I had?"

"Of course I would care," she retorted with perhaps more feeling than she had intended, but was stung by the callous tone of his words. Her dreamy eyes flashed. "Erik, I always cared for you, I never stopped, I –" Forgetting her initial shock, alarm, fear, and any sense of social constraints, Christine unconsciously leaned forward and laid a hand on his arm. The gesture was innocently intended, meant only to reinforce her words, but it sent an entire thrill through Erik's body. Ripples of heat and cold radiated from her touch, paralysing him for an instant before he recalled her betrayal, how she had screamed her tears for him had turned to those of hatred. Yet, in spite of this, in spite of everything, he could not bring himself to think ill of her. He stared some moments, trying to resign himself to the apparent contradiction that faced him. She looked so angelic, the gentle and beloved face of a Madonna, how was it possible she could be anything other than sincere? Then logic reasserted itself at the forefront of his mind. What was more likely, that Christine wished to punish him for his wicked treatment of her, or that she _cared_ for him, a villain, a creature that walked among the dammed? Abruptly, he pulled his arm from her grasp as though burned.

"Is this a game to you?" he flared suddenly. "An amusing diversion in your lazy hours of indolence? Perhaps your noble betrothed has filled your time with persuasions on how to exact revenge on poor, pitiful Erik?" He felt a brief stab of remorse when she flinched as though physically struck; but he could not stop, he could not allow himself to be seduced by her seemingly innocent wiles. Not again. "For a paragon of Christian goodness and modesty, you certainly seem to delight in tormenting me in my times of utmost weakness! Oh, I do not blame you. I am sure it is no more than I deserve. But betrayal is one thing, outright falsehood is quite another. It seems even I underestimated the overwhelming abhorrence of your feelings towards me!" He was breathing heavily now, and for one awful, terrifying moment he thought he was about to cry. The deep shuddering breath he took in order to steady himself served as a pause in his accusatory tirade in which he stopped to register the impact his words had had on Christine. He was taken aback by what he saw.

Her face had flamed high with colour; fire flashed in her soft eyes. There was an uncharacteristically hard expression on her face as she took a step towards him. She was trembling uncontrollably. "You know nothing of my feelings," she said quietly, her voice shaking with passionate tears. She looked angrier than he had ever seen her. "What dark thoughts can lie within you if think I would resort to such a cruel and disgraceful manner of revenge? Do you not know me at all? Is your soul truly so distorted that you see mockeries every way you turn? No, I _will _speak –" She held up a hand, silencing his unuttered reply. "I have spent these last nine months enduring an existence with a part of myself missing, willing myself to ceaselessly, endlessly go on, to only hope that this _emptiness_ would leave me, that I could be free of you; so how _dare_ you tell me that that is not real, that I have somehow made this up or not suffered every cold and lonesome night even if I denied it to myself –"

"Suffered?" he returned harshly, trying to revive the hatred that had sustained him for so long: the hatred that was easier to bear than the dreadful barrenness of being alone, so terribly alone! "Have you ever suffered a mother who beat you and recoiled from you in fear? Have you ever known the degradation and confinement of a cage, rolling on the straw being lashed at with jeers and a whip, like some common beast?" His voice became louder as he pushed his hands through his hair in wild frenzied motion. Memories were crowding in on him, suffocating him, each raw injustice he had thought himself hardened to, thought he had suppressed rose within him. A warning bell was tolling through his head, _don't look back, never look back…_ but he had already gone too far. "Have you ever seen the woman you love betray you for your rival, while knowing she must only look upon you with hatred and disgust?"

He turned away from her, shuddering, and watching his shaking shoulders, she saw he must have succumbed, at last, to tears. He was actually crying, crying before her very eyes, something that had never happened before. The realisation paralysed her. She was faced with the full horror and tragedy of his existence. Reeling, she tried to push away the confused rush of feelings that were surging upon her with the unremitting insistence of waves on a beach. She had always known he was a sensitive man. Hadn't the last months at the Opera Populaire taught her that? Emotional yes, volatile undoubtedly, but somehow it had never fully struck her how fragile he truly was. It was so easy to forget. In comparison to her own fears, her dependence on Raoul, she had hardly thought of his own weaknesses. His height and breadth, the ringing command his powerful voice was able to assume, the mask that so effectively hid everything that she had been unable or unwilling to see... All of this had concealed from her the blinding truth that had been facing her all this time. She, Christine Daae, was not the one who had been imprisoned, or entranced or betrayed. He had been in her power far more fully than she was ever in his.

_Why did you never tell me… those long nights you comforted me and alleviated my pain… why did you never confide in me, allow me to be the solace you brought me in my darkest hours?_

Christine felt a bitter taste at the bottom of her mouth, dry and gritty, something like ash. She wanted to flee, to hide herself, to put her hands over her ears so she would not have to hear this man breaking down before her eyes, moaning like a wounded animal. Each painfully suppressed groan driving into her with the sharp precision of a knifepoint her selfishness, her hypocrisy, her callous indifference to a heart she had broken even more fully than had she torn it from his breast and crushed it beneath her heel. Had she really been so cruel as to make him believe she hated him? Sudden, terrible guilt washed over her. It swelled outwards through her entirety, choking her with its strength. Why had no one ever told her? Why not Raoul? Madame Giry? She had never known, never stopped to think in all that time…

_What sufferings have you endured these past months, and all at my doing?_

What was this judgement that had been brought upon her? There must have been some great wrong, some great evil she must have done to bring such pain upon another. She tried to understand it, to justify it. Where had it begun? What could she have done to change it? What fatal flaw within her had made things as they were?

If things had been different… if things had been different…

_What must I do? _All she had done was fall in love with a kind, noble, generous man, and how could the world condemn her for that? Yet it was her fault. It was her fault. Her hands rose to her face, pressing against her icy skin.

_How can I atone for what I have done? My past, my pains… it is all nothing compared to yours -_

"I never hated you, Erik."

His head jerked up at the sound of her quiet voice. The constricting spasms in his chest ceased as a blinding shock overcame him at her words. Not hate him? Impossible. This was nonsense, a misconception, a delusion. He passed a shaking hand across his fevered brow. What else but hatred could have induced her to betray him in the infamous _Don Juan_? In an attempt to master himself, he said in a breaking voice, "There is no need to protect me, Christine. You at least should know I would appreciate honesty rather than a comforting lie."

"And _you_ should give me the credit of believing me when I speak the truth." The soft voice whipped like a lash in the space between them. There was something shining and brilliant in the eyes that met his unflinchingly. "I have never hated you. Never. Do you believe it was hatred that led me to fall on my knees every night and send desperate prayers to God, believing you still alive, yet fearing you were dead? If I despised you as you seem to believe, why was it that I held up my hands to heaven, begging forgiveness for my betrayal of you? Yes, I prayed Erik, I prayed and I wept! What else could I do for you, in my ignorance and uncertainty?"

All at once, it seemed his very heart had stopped beating.

She had been praying. Praying for _him_. He tried to swallow the constricting force that had suddenly become caught in his throat, for once utterly lost for words. He was facing the unthinkable. Never, in all his long bitter years walking this earth, could he recall another being who had prayed for him. Not even Nadir – a reluctant smile twisted his distorted features in spite of himself – for all his goodness. The Persian had lectured, scolded and comforted by turns, but even this caring diligence paled in comparison to the sublime devotion he saw radiate so sincerely from Christine, so purely that she already seemed on the threshold of that glorious world he feared would ever be denied him. A sense once more of his wretched _unworthiness_ enveloped him.

He was suddenly back in the cellars of the Opera. Water lapping at his waist, cloying, drowning, ready to pull him under as he stared in silent stupefaction at the girl who had pressed her lips against his with such desperate intensity and abandon. A million thoughts and feelings were running through his mind, almost as piercing as the trammels of heat and cold that shook his body. Her hands cool against his face, and her eyes – those pure, shining, untainted eyes – still awash with tears but brilliant in their act of supreme self-sacrifice. In the whirling, turbulent confusion, one single thought had emerged with startling clarity: that he could not do it. He did not deserve her. Not Christine. Not this ardent, high souled and generous girl. He had no right dragging her into his internal madness. No, if there was one thing he could do for her, it was to make her happiness, even if it came at the cost of sacrificing his own.

Erik's dry eyes burned at the memory. Again, he felt a sense of disgrace compared to her sincerity and goodness. While he had been consumed with heat, fired with the desire for vengeance, or frozen with cold, bemoaning his fate in bitterness, this good – too good! – creature had found it in her heart to forgive him. Forgive him; even after the horrors he had put her through? How could it be possible?

"Why – Christine, I –" He spread his hands helplessly, unable to find any words sufficient to express his remorse. "I don't know what to –"

"Let me go," she said quietly.

Erik heard, but was unwilling to believe. His voice rang with mastery, but something shattered and broke inside him. "I'm afraid that isn't possible."

Christine pressed her hands against her face. It would be easier to fight if she were not so _tired. _Tired of everything: her engagement, her uncertainty, her past that she could not seem to escape… She dreaded what new torments he could bring upon her. For nine months, she had buried her past, and within moments he had awakened every emotion she had thought banished from her heart. "Erik, I know you cannot keep me here against my will. You tried before and failed."

"Things have changed since then."

"Things _have_ changed. I have another life now. One that –" she hated herself for the necessary cruelty of her words – "One in which you have no part."

A shadow fell across his masked face. Only the eyes glowed within, like unhealthy coals. His silken voice a laced threat. "It's not so simple. You let me in. I will always be a part of you."

At his words, a tremor of foreboding ran through her veins. She could not live with this endless, suffocating pursuit of her. He called it love, but it was annihilation. Complete and endless. "Erik." She felt desperately sorry for him, but was unable to comfort him, not in the way he wanted. "This infatuation, this – obsession – has to stop."

"I don't think you understand," his voice was determinedly quiet, belying the tormented thoughts within him. _Release me from this helpless state. I hunger and I burn. Your form before my eyes, always. __I have known fire and fury and piercing despair, oh, but with _you_, I could forget and forgive all! _"Christine, I love you –"

"Love!" She exhaled in mingled frustration and hopelessness. "This isn't love! This is lust. And a desire to possess."

"Do you really believe that?" Erik tightened his gloved fists, feeling the furious control he had exerted over himself nearing breaking point. Those words wounded him more effectively than any declaration of hatred. The purity of his love was being coarsened and cheapened to nothing more than a vulgar profanity. Had he not proven throughout this night that he would never touch her against her will? What of his resolutions to do good, did it all mean nothing? Then so be it. She would not love him, so she would have to settle for fearing him instead. Bitterness flowed through him like blood. _I was willing to be tender and gentle. It was you who demanded a monster. _She thought him a monster just as surely as she had once thought him an angel. The moment she had seen his face, it had all been over. _I should never have revealed myself. _Then she would never have known his true self or looked on him with such agony and betrayal.

"I thought you loved me. When you showed yourself willing to sacrifice your own impulses to set me free, I admit, I was convinced of it. But now –"

"What more proof do you need? I would die for you –"

"That's just it." Christine looked up at him; her expression was almost pitying. "Love. Death. Destruction. It is all one and the same. What you cannot possess you would rather destroy."

"You hardly called it destruction when you first came to me: a heartbroken shell of a girl with no hope, no purpose in life. I healed you. Do you dare to deny it? And you… you made me feel more than I can say. But perhaps I should try. Perhaps that way I might make you understand. Before you came to me," he said slowly. "I was dead. Oh, my heart was beating, I was still breathing, but it meant nothing. They called me the living corpse, you know. And I was. Lifeless, emotionless, passionless. Until one day… hidden in the wings of the Opera House… I heard your voice, and for the first time… I felt… _alive_… God, Christine, what you _do _to me -"

"Stop it, _stop it_!" she pleaded in an agony of hysteria. "Stop it!" She could listen to this no longer. His wrath was terrible but his misery was worse. _Oh God! It is my pity, not his passion, that will be the undoing of me. How can I watch him suffer and do nothing, knowing that I am its cause?_

Erik saw something of unyielding stubbornness in her trembling slender frame; all the sweet gentleness he loved in her was gone. There was a dash of fire in her; an agonised desperation about the set corners of her mouth; the straying dark curls a halo in negative. Her eyes were wide and wild, shining with passionate tears.

"Christine, you do not understand what you are asking me to do!" Erik growled, his darkened gaze passing from her deliberately still face to his shaking hands with such rapidity that for a moment he looked almost crazed. "I have whispered your name in longing, behind the stage of the Opera, screamed it in despair concealed in the cellars beneath the surface of Paris. I have muttered your name in the freezing snows of Russia and in the blazing heats of Spain. I tell you, Christine, you have stolen my past and present. I am begging you, do not rob me of a future too."

In an attempt to move away from him, from the terrible words he was saying, she fell back into her chair, but in a movement of fluid grace, Erik sank to his knees before her. Her skin shivered at his closeness. Gloved hands caught in the fine satin of her skirts, and she could feel their heat burning through the leather. Artists's hands, musician's hands. Murderer's hands.

"Do you want me to beg?" he demanded in a voice of such forced quiet, it was harder to endure than if he had shouted. "Because I will. I give you my word." She found herself gazing into the old madness that had returned to his dark eyes. His half-exposed face was filled with love and rage and insanity as he continued ruthlessly, his tones low with intent, "I will beg you. Stalk you. Haunt you. Anything it takes."

She heard the unspoken warning in his voice - the terrible destruction he could wreck when his desires were thwarted. Christine looked entreatingly into his face and she saw no mercy. His eyes were wild with fury and possession. The fires she glimpsed within burned her soul. No, he would never stop pursuing her, never stop wanting her. She knew she could no more entreat him to find another muse than she could ask him to cast his own heart from his chest. She knew it just as she knew she would never sing again. One only ever sang once like that. After what had passed between them in those unearthly lessons, nothing in this world could hope to compare. Music had been the great meaning of her life, but the music needed Erik and that cost was too great to herself. He demanded her love, and that she could not give. Renouncing her music had been the greatest sacrifice of her life, and she had done it all for Raoul. The betrayal to Erik had been a terrible one, but how could she have done otherwise?

_How much easier it would have been if you had cursed and despised me… but what am I saying? My greatest act of evil led to your greatest act of goodness… one that broke my heart with agony and longing… tell me that the soul I glimpsed in that moment still resides within you… _

A soul as creative and inspired as his could not be beyond redemption - she would not believe it. And yet… when he looked at her with such cruelty and possession, darkening his face with such forbidding lines -

Demon or lover? He crouched before her, fiery-eyed and menacing. She would not forget that expression of raw, ferocious longing until her dying day. The strong planes of his face were stubbornly set, as though carved in marble. His powerful hands had closed around her like a vice. Large, mobile hands that could break her in an instant. She had not forgotten - could never forget - the deaths at his hand. How could one man wield so much creation and destruction? She thought suddenly of Raoul and blue eyes, and longing filled her heart.

She leaned forward, her face framed by its coronet of dark hair. Her slender white hand clutched at the voluminous skirts, gently trying to prise the delicate material from his impassioned grasp. Erik swallowed hard, his gaze smouldering and intent, fixed on the delicate bones of her wrist, the smoothness of her pale skin against the coarse darkness of his own. To feel that ivory flesh without the barriers of leather and clothing between them, to awaken her senses as he had done once, so long ago… God, he must have been mad to release her. Why had he given her nine months to harden her heart against him and fall ever deeper in love with her Vicomte?

His grip unconsciously tightened, resisting Christine's efforts to free herself of his hold.

"Please don't make this harder than it has to be, Erik." The words fell softly from her lips. She felt the tears fall in slow, burning rivulets down her face, immersing her skin in a baptism of pain. "If you truly love me, let me go."

"I can't," he said heavily.

The sight of Christine's body sinking lower in her chair was almost enough to make him repent, but not quite. The sight of her pale, passionate face, her dark eyes full of sorrow, made it even harder to endure. She was so frail even in her defiance, enhanced by the glaring contrast of strong crimson velvets against the pallor of her skin. He was overwhelmed with the horror that time was trickling away, the minutes, the hours, the days. How many months, years even, had already been wasted? He had thought often of death – yearned for it in his times of utmost despair – yet his inherent strength and the inward heart of passion meant that he had always endured. Now here was the very meaning of mortality exposed before him in all its bitterness. This was a young woman – barely out of girlhood – who by rights should be tasting the joys of life, not sinking under its intolerable burdens. He saw her reduced to this, and raged against it, even as he felt something inside him collapse with that same heavy weariness. Words were no longer eloquent to convey such depths of resonating anguish –

"I can't," Erik repeated hoarsely. "I can't bear… seeing you like this."

"Then release me. Please. Let me return to my life and be happy." Yet how could she live, happily, knowing that he suffered?

"But you are not happy. Your face has lost its colour, and…" he wandered over towards the organ, pausing before the instrument as though deep in meditation… and then… oh, then_…_! his fingers played a few slow, lingering chords that echoed softly around the abandoned dwelling.

Christine closed her eyes, her soul burning. How was it that he could make her experience any emotion? The resounding glory of the divine when she believed him to be an angel, the passionate and seductive power of _Don Juan_, but _this_… it drew her whole spirit, hope and imagination and remorse and a strange, ethereal pain. It could have been years ago, the night she first heard him playing winter melodies beneath a Chopin moon and a frozen sky, the exquisite sounds passing mournfully through the walls of her chamber, setting her heart astir with such a strange, fleeting longing.

The music transfixed her. She had never felt anything so heartrending in all her life. The melancholy strains were devastating in their fervent expression of eternal sorrow, yet stirring in their unimaginable beauty. This was no quietly contained sadness, but a wild, uncontrollable grief. As though every pang of misery, every unfulfilled yearning, all the tears of unrequited passion he had ever shed in the hours of isolation now poured through his fingers, coming alive through the instrument. Deeper and more penitent than anything she had ever heard, like the sobbing wrenched from the most wretched of souls… the memory of a night in the holy chapel where a child had crouched, weeping inconsolably… ah, she had never known such hopeless despair! And she was so cold, so cold. Words whispered into the dark, nocturnal silence -

_I know that you are gone from this world and can no longer hear me, but sometimes I imagine that you are close by, watching over me, and this conviction overcomes all reason. I cannot sleep… I have visions, strange, terrible visions that devastate me – scenes and images I do not understand, only there is always music… oh, such music! Beautiful and unearthly it surely comes from heaven itself, though it shivers through me, down through the floor and into the depths of the earth and – oh, it breaks my heart to listen to it…! I can hardly bear it... though to never hear it again would mean death, a fate far worse than any I could possibly imagine, because that music has become more than life itself… it is in the air, the sky, the silence, in my very pulse… it is all one, yet it is nothing, dear father._

And still the music went on. Christine listened, speechless with emotion. She was beyond weeping. A sharp pain convulsed her. She could not bear it -

Words burst from her, passionate, frenzied –

"Erik! I can't - oh, God, my heart! I feel as though I were dying… that they have laid me beside my father in the cold earth and my heart is frozen… What is this, Erik? I feel so sick with hopelessness."

The music came to an abrupt halt.

Christine opened her eyes to find they contained tears. Erik was gazing at her, fierce and sombre; she saw her own desperate intensity of feeling reflected in the depths of his shadowed eyes.

"I thought you had forgotten," he said in a low voice.

She put out a shaking hand, her mind reeling. His music still coursed through her. Forget? She could no more forget than she could forget her own existence -

_Do you know how I felt when I thought I would never, never see you again? To think that the music accorded to us from afar, that had been destined by heaven, was to end forever, that we were to be severed as though it never were - how can I describe the emotions that passed through me? It was as though I had been frozen, blinded, taken to my death… do you understand? Do you understand?_

In a trance, as though some unknown force outside herself guided her actions, she found herself slowly walking towards the instrument where he was seated, his dark head bowed over the keys, seized in the grip of some delirium. Sensing her presence, he looked up – and his eyes were no longer preoccupied.

"Sing with me," he whispered.


	6. La Nouvelle Heloise

**The Mask and Mirror**

_You only see what your eyes want to see  
How can life be what you want it to be  
You're frozen  
When your heart's not open_

_You're so consumed with how much you get_  
_You waste your time with hate and regret_  
_You're broken_  
_When your heart's not open_

_Mmm, if I could melt your heart_  
_Mmm, we'd never be apart_

(Madonna, Frozen)

Chapter 6

She dreamed of the fire again. Of ash and smoke and falling rafters. Her lungs seared with pain as she was dragged roughly along endless dark passageways (_come along my dear, you have a wedding to attend),_ the terrible stench of burning flesh assailing her senses. Brimstone and embers danced behind her closed lids and acrid smoke stung her eyes when she awoke, her face pressed into the pillow that was damp with fevered tears.

For several moments, Christine remained still, willing her breathing to slow. It had been a long time since she had dreamt of that night. The horror of it was too raw to dwell on even now. It had been a shattering revelation that had torn the final remnants of her childhood from her forever. To realise that someone she had trusted so implicitly, so _blindly _could turn so savagely on her. Even before that fatal unmasking, she had clung to the belief in Erik's decency and humanity with fierce conviction. And it had all been for nothing. So vivid still, his bruising, hurting grip on her bare shoulders, shaking her furiously; angel turned demon.

And now she was here again, once more wholly in his power. Thus far Erik had been deferential, entreating, even, but that beast ever lurked beneath the surface, waiting for the moment to be unleashed once more. And she was trapped with no hope of rescue. No one even knew she was here. She should have been frightened, passionate, enraged. Instead, she only felt terribly weary.

Wrapping her light gown tighter around herself, Christine drew back the heavy curtains and glanced tentatively out, but Erik was nowhere to be seen. Although it was barely possible to tell so far beneath the earth, some instinct older than the Parisian civilisation she had grown accustomed to told her it was morning. Cautiously, she made her way through the dimly-lit abode, becoming more confused by the moment. After everything he had said to her last night, surely he would not have left her? She could not decide how she felt about that thought, so pushed it away, along with all the other buried thoughts and sensations too painful to be confronted in the harsh light of day.

As she wandered through the sepulchral silence, Christine found herself thinking of the snow-encrusted carriages rolling by in the world above. And in her state of isolation, it seemed there had been something strange and sweet in the bleakness of the landscape, the frosted ground. So far away it seemed now, and her heart ached at the thought that all she had striven for might be lost to her forever. Her life had been chiffon and lace and sweet summer mornings. But now Erik had taken her once more, and with Erik came darkness, and there would be no more summer.

But still, in her inmost heart, there was a resigned solace, a bittersweet solitude in being away from it all at last, away from the looks of pity and the politely veiled curiosity that followed her like a shadow. Away from those idle hours where she had wandered like a shade through the vast halls of Raoul's mansion, a ghost of her former self. Day following day with the interminable sameness. Chandeliers and champagne and endless waltzes. Empty conversation rising and falling around her. Trapped in crinoline, she had stared dully into mirrors and the gilt surfaces of things and hardly knew herself. Everyone was courteous and polite and kind besides, and she could have responded, had she cared to. But the sense of wrongness persisted, whispered to her through the liminal hours as the moon climbed ever higher, and would give her no rest. Yet the cultured, tinkling voices of idle gossip had been worse (_such a sweet, such a pretty thing, wouldn__'__t you agree, Dorian?_).

Perhaps, in some perverse way, she had brought this upon herself, not content to be satisfied with the peace she had so dearly bought.

There was a flutter of white on the organ stand, and she curiously made her way forward, picking up the letter and scanning its contents rapidly.

_Christine,_

_I could not bring myself to disturb you while you slept. I have merely gone out to arrange a few matters. My absence will not be long; I have already spent far too many hours apart from you. In the meantime, occupy yourself as you wish; my home is yours._

_As am I, and always will be,_

_Erik_

Christine frowned at the note, particularly the adieu. She wondered how long the 'few matters' would keep him away for. Unthinking, the paper still clutched in her hand, she sank onto the seat beside the organ until she recalled the last time she had done so. God! How could she have forgotten? She recoiled with a suppressed cry as visions of the night before flooded through her. She covered her face with her hands as terrible guilt overwhelmed her.

He had done it again. Drawn her to him with the power of his voice. Why had she succumbed? Why did she always fall victim to that fatal power that no mortal man should possess? By rights, she should have passed the night in tearful solitude, silently praying for Raoul to rescue her from this – this – divine hell, this _damned _heaven she found herself trapped in just as hopelessly as though she had never broken free of its fatal clutches. Her peace of mind was disturbed, and memories she had thought forever dead were awakened.

She thought of Raoul and his warm and tender heart, perhaps the only thing in this world strong enough to drive away the darkness that threatened to consume her. His youthful figure traced so deeply in her mind, educated and earnest, subtle and sincere.

In truth, there was more than a hint of veneration in her love for Raoul – an innocent, transparent artlessness in her devotion towards him. Never before had she encountered any man so chivalrous, generous, affable, merry and warm-hearted; his clear heart was traced in his features so far unstained with the cruelty of life's bitterness. And in turn, his love had a trace of the spiritual about it; he did not love with the furious, burning intensity of consuming passion, but with an open, ardent affection. Pure love, virtuous love, cherished love. Was there anything more beautiful in the world? And to think it might be lost to her forever…

Her sense of misery increased. What would Raoul think? Would he realise Erik was the one responsible for her absence and silence? And if so, what if he thought she had willingly returned to him? God knows she had given him enough cause to, after their quarrel. So vividly she could imagine his dear face and bright, strong blue eyes; it made her faint with longing. _I spoke rash words, my love, which I now repent with all my heart. Had I known that it might be our last night together, how differently I would have acted! How sweetly the hours would have passed as we watched the winter night from the candlelit warmth of your room, and spoke of a thousand different things, of poems and memories and dreams. The comforting warmth of your shoulder that I would lean against, your soft, beloved hand in mine… _

They could have been so blissfully happy together… recaptured the purity of the love they had once shared, a love without any memories of the darkness that sought to tear them apart… _Only that was before; before Piangi and Joseph Buquet, and my sweet father, before Erik tore my hopes and dreams to ash and crushed them beneath his feet, a thousand, thousand years ago. _All before the fire had burned her out.

And how could she make Raoul understand, heartfelt and honest Raoul to whom all love was simple and uncomplicated, and not hopelessly bound up with past reminders of music and memories? Raoul could never understand what she had had with Erik and would never understand what she had lost without him. A piece of herself that had been missing ever since her father died and she had seen his poor, wasted face, rigid and lifeless, the light gone out of his eyes for good. A part of her had been buried that day, too, and the course of her existence forever altered.

Would Gustave Daae cry to learn what had become of his daughter? Or had he known something, a subtle premonition the day he called the girl to his bedside in the small house at the Rue Notre-Dame-des-Victoires, holding her tightly to him, kissing her and weeping inconsolably? And if so, why had he not told her?

The worst of it was, she could hardly remember his face. Only those wistful blue eyes that would watch over her in the night and chase the darkness away. And yet this was one demon he had never warned her about.

_Oh father, why did you not warn me of the perils of surrendering my soul to a stranger? I did nothing to defend myself from being overcome, but lost myself to that voice and presence without a thought to the fatal consequences. And by the time I learned the terrible truth, I was already too far gone, too deeply fallen into the abyss. I try to tear myself away, but always, always, I am brought back!_

Perhaps she might have had a choice once, but that choice would have been at the beginning of her life, when had never heard of Erik or the Opera Ghost. Raoul had tried to warn her almost a year ago, at the cemetery. _He's got a hold over you, _he had said to her later that night. Mama Valerius had warned her even before that. _Such a power is not of this earth. It comes either from heaven or hell. Take care, child. _They had all warned her, but she had been too stubborn, too naïve, too much a _child_ to listen when she should have. But Christine pushed that thought away, because to acknowledge it meant that she knew. Knew that she was merely repeating a chapter of a long, long story, and one whose ending had a terrible sense of inevitably to the whole thing.

Because, oh... when was the last time she had sung with her whole body and soul? Who could condemn her for having fallen into a rapture so long denied her, even if it brought her indescribable pain? If this was to be her downfall, her damnation and destruction, how sweet the annihilation was. But she had not been annihilated. She had been brought to life. Surrendering herself entirely to this strange force that had dominated her mind and heart ever since she could remember.

What was the supreme purpose of her being, if not music? What other meaning could her existence hold, what else could touch her soul and move her spirit so deeply?

* * *

_They had sung together deep into the night that would ever after come to her in a fever dream, sweet and sacred and profound. Standing at his side at the organ, her clear, heart-rending voice ringing through the hollowed dwelling so long deprived of her presence, echoing the heartache and loneliness of the man seated beside her. The sombre mood passed through her very being, a sound that pierced her heart. Time lost all meaning. She was lost, drowning in the immeasurably soft and evocative notes that dwelt on a lifetime of yearning. As with all things of true beauty, his song was touched with irrevocable sadness. The sensitive melody called to her, pulling from her the deepest emotions of her soul. She sang for Erik, for herself and for the lost memories of her father playing his violin along the shore before he had been lowered into the cold, hard ground. Erik's fingers moved ceaselessly over the instrument with energy and impulse, though the arm that brushed against hers was wracked with violent tremors. The unmasked side of his face was revealed to her, and tears were coursing unheeded down his cheeks. Exposed features were taut with fierce concentration and barely contained self-control. He hardly dared look at her, as though every brief glimpse of her face overpowered him. The dark eyes that occasionally flashed on hers were torn by agony and hope. _

_She sang until the candle flames wavered and died, until she was aware of nothing but the searing heat of him beside her and this music that was intense and grief stricken and all-enveloping. He drew from her feelings she had not known existed, an ache she thought long buried, until her voice became too choked to continue. He carried on playing softly, while her song faded into the surrounding darkness. The only light was that beside her, in the depths of his eyes that were filled with such pleading and torment._

_Overcome with emotion, at last she rested her head against the side of his face, letting his tears mingle with hers._

_In the sacrosanct hush, it seemed the very world had stopped turning. For a long time (an eternity it seemed), they remained unmoving. The heat of his skin scorched her. She was overwhelmed by memories. The last few months dispersed and blew away like ashes in the wind. She was here once more with her trusted spirit and guide. One who knew her better than she knew herself, had appeared to her in her darkest hours. She felt his pain as keenly as though it were her own. He had always watched her, always looked out for her. And how had she repaid him? Betrayal and abandonment. She could feel his hot tears drying on her face and knew she had been the cause of them. Icy guilt clawed through her. Her comforter, her confidant… how could she? How could she?_

_With a tentative movement, as though terrified at his own boldness, Erik reached out a gloved hand, leathern fingers coming into contact with the silken material of her loose sleeve and brushing slightly against bare skin. The act of instigated contact was enough to bring reality rushing back. Christine flinched and withdrew at once; her pulse jumped. Sudden fear clutched at her insides. She pulled away at once, stumbling to her feet. There was a pounding in her ears._

"_What have you done to me?" she whispered. "You've – you've made me – I feel – I remember – oh God!"_

_Erik stood up and took a couple of entreating steps towards her, hands outstretched. The mask hovered over her. All her old terror of him had returned. Not for what he was, but for how he influenced her. He devoured her with his looks. "You remember how things were. How they used to be. You always had someone in this world to rely on, to draw your strength from. Even after your father died. He left you and you found an angel. And once that angel left… there was no one. Did you find such comfort with your Vicomte? Did you?" His mouth twisted with cruel satisfaction. "I think not."_

"_I was a grieving _child, _Erik!," she cried, wanting to put her hands over her ears to escape his voice that was still agonisingly lovely even in moments such as this. "I trusted you, more than anyone, more than I can ever –" She broke off, tears burning in her eyes. She looked up at him, braving the murderer that flashed through his expression at her outright defiance. A latent fire burned in the depths of his dark eyes. "You can seduce me with music, you can manipulate me, but you _cannot _make me deny that I made the right choice. I made my decision through honesty and love. But you – you're merely a pretence. I pity you."_

_Pity. God almighty, if there was one thing he did not want to hear from her! Pity! As though he truly were some cringing dog that clung to her skirts, that only lived if she deigned to glance on him. But she was right. His only power over her was through manipulation and force. The knowledge struck him with a crippling intensity. Angrily, he dashed the tears from his face even as he felt new ones begin to rise. His last hope was gone. Not even the tender memories of the past could redeem him in her mind._

"_So it is true," he said hoarsely. He took a deep, shuddering breath and continued dully. "You really do feel nothing for me, then. It is gone forever."_

_His voice was filled with so much agony that Christine's tender heart, so inclined to sympathy, could not help but relent slightly. "No," she breathed softly. "That simply isn't true, as I told you before." She gazed earnestly into his face; he was lost in her soft, grave eyes. "Do you know what I felt on learning you were alive?"_

"_Pity," he supplied dully. "Compassion." He did not dare hope for anything more._

"_I felt –" Christine's hand rose slowly to the side of her face; her soulful eyes were absent and he knew that at the moment she was not seeing him. This was unexpected, it was unsettling… Something great and wondrous and terrible began to unfold inside him. He knew – _knew_, despite his cursed ugliness, his despicable nature – that there was more. He stepped forward, his breathing quickened._

"_What?" he demanded insistently. "What did you feel?"_

"_More than I can express," she whispered._

_Erik stared at her, struck by an intense yearning he had not felt since that night he had glimpsed her performing _Hannibal, _sweet and slender and starry-eyed, alight with youth and hope, and the vision stopped his breath._

"_Is there any hope? Just an inch – a fraction – anything – give me something." His melodic voice was jarred with harsh breaths and tones of frantic urgency._

_Christine pressed her hands against her face at his words; when she pulled them away, deep impressions remained in the tender skin. She seemed to take a moment to collect herself before saying in tones of deliberated calm, "I do feel something for you, Erik. I cannot deny that it is strong and intense… overwhelming… but it isn't love."_

"_Not yet."_

"_I could never trust you enough to love you."_

_Her words were like a death knell, extinguishing that last flicker of hope that had kindled like a pure light before his eyes._

_Blinding, blackening emotion came crashing over him in one great sweeping wave. He felt a rising convulsion of fury and despair building up deep inside his chest. The blood was pounding in his ears. He felt the fatal manuscript of Don Juan thundering through his body once more, the rage and fire of culminating madness throbbing through each vein in a frenzy he had thought – no prayed – never again to experience. He could no longer think. All he knew was Christine was going to break his heart again. He wasn't strong enough for this. He had been through enough. He had seen enough._ No more! Let it end, please just let it end_… the screaming inside him was rising to a crescendo, seeking an outlet._

"_So you torment me?" His voice was shaking as the words left him in a distorted snarl; he could have torn her apart with his bare hands... _(No, I will never hurt her, never –!)_ "You tear my life apart for a _maybe_? I have wept for you, sighed for you, almost died for you – and for what? Merely that you don't despise me? Allow me to declare myself honoured at such generosity!"_

"_What do you want me to say?" she demanded, eyes flaring with brilliant anger._

_He was standing barely inches from her. She had forgotten how tall he was. "Lie to me," he breathed, low and deadly. Christine could not move. "Tell me you love me."_

"_I can't," she said._

_A long, terrible silence followed this pronouncement._

_Beneath the mask, Erik's face worked and convulsed as his hands gripped the thick, black waves of his hair. Christine watched silently, fighting off conflicting emotions of guilt and compassion. She would never come to him willingly, but that did not mean she could watch him suffer without empathy._

"_You drove me away!" he shouted suddenly. "Oh, mad Christine, why did you drive me away? Did you not see it would be easier to think you loathed me, than this – this – _hell _you have trapped me in! Can you not see that my last state will be worse than my first?"_

_He broke off, breathing heavily, writhing memories flashing through his mind in a spinning kaleidoscope of injury and insanity. A candlestick gripped in one hand. Shattered glass beneath his feet. Blood running through his fingers. Splintered, distorted, manifold images of a demon reflected in blinding prisms every way he turned. A shudder ran through his entire body. He could not endure this again. He would not. Whirling on the spot, he sought an escape from the horror of those memories, the horror of himself. His suffering rose to agony. He could stay here no longer. It took every muster of self-will to say, "It is late. I would advise you to retire." His voice was as dead as he felt._

_A whirl of his cloak, and he was gone._

* * *

Christine opened her eyes, shaken by the vivid recollection. The sight of his face when she had shattered all his hopes was burned into her soul. Could she _ever _forget that look? A desperate, malevolent yearning, a need more intense than life itself. And yet she had not sought his love, had never _wanted _it. Her heart was filled with pity and sorrow.

_He raised me from the depths of despair and I have caused him nothing but misery. Oh Lord, you did not bring him death, but could you not have brought him peace?_

But even in death, he would have remained with her, his spirit an ever-constant shadow at her side, blighting her happiness. _The dead raised up incorruptible. _Christine shuddered. There were enough ghosts haunting her in the silent hours. Her father looking at her with hollow, despairing eyes. Mama Valerius smiling even as she coughed up her own blood. Piangi on fire and trying not to scream. Looking back brought too many memories.

Awful as seeing Erik again would undoubtedly be, the prospect of being left alone with nothing but her own reflections for company was almost equally unbearable. She could not stand this cruel isolation – she who had once loved being alone, had found sweet repose and gentle dreams in solitude – was now weighed down by too many memories, too many fears of what was yet to come. Ever since she had known him, she had been in a wilderness of doubt and dread. She paced, endlessly, endlessly, distracted, restless.

She perused Erik's brief note again, her distracted step turned towards the dining room. At the doorway, she paused.

The room was laid out as though for a bridal feast, yet a haunted air of solemn dejection hung over the scene. The table was adorned with a simple yet elegant white cloth, bordered with a thin gold lining. One of the chairs at the end was already pulled out; a place was set with silver cutlery. White roses _(white for love forsaken)_ drooped in vases and scattered their petals sadly over the pale cloth.

_And all this might have awaited me, _Christine thought wonderingly. _Had I not fled into the night and said words that I did not mean and now regret with all my heart… _A heaviness filled her heart. Some haunting premonition told her that she was not going to be married.

She took a seat uncertainly, her trembling fingers reaching for the dishes, though everything seemed to turn to ash in her mouth. She forced herself to eat, feeling she would choke on every mouthful. She had almost withered away to a ghost last winter and she could not do so again.

The hours of deep sleep and sustenance began to help her recover, and Christine felt a measure of her innate endurance and strength returning. A curiosity to explore more of this place, so reflective of the soul of its owner, began to overcome the melancholic apathy that had weighed on her spirit for so long.

She knew better than to hope to glimpse the haunting, poetic beauty of this place, for the water and fire had done their work all too efficiently; the adornments of tarnished candelabras and scorched draperies insufficient to conceal the destruction that she had inadvertently brought upon this place. She saw it again, in her mind's eye as it once was, wandering through endless rooms with no occupants. The smell of incense and leather and old books. And there had been paper. Stacks and stacks of it, stanzas and nocturnes and unfinished novels gathering dust as the water dripped monotonously into the empty silence. His house. Nothing but paper and time. All gone, lost to the flames.

The silence was unnerving. This was a place that thrived on music; the sombre quiet only highlighted the sense of emptiness. Christine decided to look for some score sheets she could play. It would serve a dual purpose in distracting her and breaking the oppressive silence that hung in the gloomy air. One of the shelves was piled high with books and loose sheaths of paper. Beneath a particularly weighty volume of Shakespeare's sonnets was stacked a pile of these pages, one of which she realised upon closer examination was an extract of Rousseau's _Julie_. Curiosity impelled her to read on in spite of herself (she had begun to believe that nothing could stir her tired soul), drawn into the passionate and yearning world inhabited by Julie and Saint-Preux. She devoured every word, keenly, desperately, feeling every emotion as though it were her own.

_I cannot live without you, I know, and this frightens me most. A hundred times a day I walk through the places where we used to be together, but I never find you there. I wait for you at your usual hour, but the hour comes and goes and you do not appear. Everything I see reminds me of you, only to inform me that I have lost you…_

She paused, silent and thoughtful. The page was folded and stained; clearly it had been read many times. Christine pressed a pale hand to the faded pages, long-forgotten words rising startlingly in her memory. _Fate links thee to me forever and a day. _She needed to see more, know more, and with a strange urgency she did not understand, attempted to uncover the remaining pages. As she pulled the book aside, a sheath of loose papers fell out. Christine sighed with frustration and knelt to retrieve them. She barely gave the sheets a glance and went to put them back, when she realised that they were not music scores, as she had absently assumed, but were densely packed with hurried, unsteady handwriting, divided in a series of passages that had clearly been written over a long period of time. Curious as it was, she would never have given it another thought had she not seen a name scrawled across the top of one of the pages. The name was her own. The handwriting was Erik's.

Her heart beating strangely, Christine looked down and began to read,

… _Without you, I languish and waste away. I no longer see, I no longer feel anything. I am consumed by memories of you beside me. I remember how things were and it drives me mad with longing. I once thought it torture having to watch you with a barrier of glass ever between us, never able to touch or be near you, but even that was sweet compared to this… oh God, I was a fool in wishing for more, for daring to reveal myself, when I should have been satisfied merely with the joy of seeing you learn and flourish beneath my tutelage…! If I am in hell now, it is a hell of my own making._

_**March, 1881**_

_I can bear this no longer in silence. Perhaps when you recognise the hand that has written this letter, you will immediately tear it up, and my misery shall never be read. But I appeal to your pity and beg you to hear what I must say._

_I would never have dared written this if I could hope to see you and speak to you just once...! That alone would have sustained me. I would then think of nothing else till my dying breath…_

_Do you feel nothing of this agony and fever that burns constantly in my veins? The world passes me by yet I am not of it. It means nothing to me. I feel that time is short but I cannot escape this state of hopeless apathy. Every day that passes is barren and meaningless, unless on waking, I might catch a distant glimpse of you... _

_**November, 1881**_

_Do not think that I have not tried to break away; the paths of Europe must weary with the number of times my feet have trodden them, but it is all in vain. I am drawn back to France, to Paris, to you. You must know what this means, though I have not dared send a word your way, despite having set my pen to paper hundreds of times. I am drawn to desperate measures and dare not think what I might do – my very soul shrinks against it – and yet to see you once more, to grasp you in my arms and call you my own, my darling, my love -! _

_For I love you, Christine. I love you so much it consumes me. _

_I would defy God and his legions for an hour in your presence. Let the consequences fall where they may, for I have endured this loneliness long enough. I have nothing to lose, for my life, my heart, my soul, are gone from me, all banished to the same place._

_They all reside in you._

_**June, 1881**_

_I'm here alone in a state of constant torture. If you but knew the bitter tears and anger I suffer in solitude, you would not despise me, as I fear you must. Do not lose your compassion, Christine. It is the one pure and beautiful thing in this wretched world. If you could but send me one word, either to let me know if I may hope, or if all hopes end. It is enough. I throw myself entirely at your mercy._

_But I cannot forget. I cannot. The whole of nature conspires to remind me of your existence. Your image is burned into my mind. Your haunted eyes, your soft voice, the beauty of your soul… it makes me wild with despair that I may never see them again, and I resolve that it shall not be so. No. I will not believe you lost to me. You are not so far from me yet. I do not know where or when or how, but I will see you again. I must see you again. Feelings so strong will not be denied. If fate will not allow our paths to cross, then I will find you myself. Until then, I am forced to live with this fire and despair, which will ease only with the sight of you, or in the tomb._

The papers slid to the floor.

Christine remained deathly still, each unsteady breath coming faster and faster, feeling something gradually looming over her – or inside her. Something dark and imminent and inexorable. She could feel the blood draining from her face, rushing straight to her heart as the pounding in her chest intensified beyond endurance, a pain unfamiliar and agonising.

It was too much. She wanted to close her eyes. To forget. To have not been so foolish – so _callous – _as to intrude into his private emotions and expose what she had denied to herself all these months. In that moment, she knew herself. She understood what she had feared without knowing it.

She recalled her words of last night – so cruel and heartless they seemed now! – _This isn't love! This is lust. And a desire to possess._

Yes, it was easier, so much easier to have believed that to be so! It eased the burden of guilt and sorrow that had become a part of her ever since the night she had pulled the mask from his face and committed an act of betrayal she would regret for the rest of her life. She had been _told_ by everyone with self-righteous assurance that his was a dark, twisted desire that held no affinity with the purity of true, sincere love. And so she had persuaded herself that a man able to commit such atrocities could never have any understanding of genuine love. Therefore, what remorse could she feel in denying him? But now –

Were these the words of lust? Were these the words of a distorted mind that sought only possession and destruction?

Or were they the words of a lonely soul, an unquiet heart lost in a hopeless passion?

What had she done to him?

Half-blindly, Christine picked up the sheets once more. She shivered, both to read and not to read. Inexplicable fears seized her. Unimaginable thoughts crowded her mind, each making less sense than the last. Nothing made sense anymore.

Was she ready for this? Something great and indefinable had been altered. In the lair of an angel, she had stumbled upon a book of Revelation. She felt herself on the verge of some great tragedy.

Her fingers shook as she perused the faded manuscripts once more, as though reading them again would somehow make it less true, less awful and overwhelming. Every word pierced her heart. In her hand the whole mystery of love was exposed to her: the destiny, the sorrow, the endurance, the entirety. She read through the pages again in a trembling state of mind, seeing in the lines a writer possessed with hope amidst despair, agony amidst ecstasy. One who had nothing to lose, chained to hell with but distant glimpses of heaven. She needed no signature to know there was only one man who could have written such a letter. As in his music, his words conveyed the same divine beauty, touched with infinite sadness. The tone was passionate yet sombre, resigned yet frenzied; the lines burned with fervour and energy yet he seemed on the brink of seeking refuge in death. To what extremes must he have been driven to write with such abandon and desperation? It was all too urgent, too desperate and raw and vulnerable. He had written as though he must, written to keep the emptiness from consuming him. In these faded sheets of paper, she held the very essence of his soul.

Oh, how much harder this made things now! If she had ever doubted the depths of his passion towards her, these words must surely refute it! She had to accept the inevitable. She could not hide from it, nor deny it to herself any longer. He loved her. He loved her.

Those words were traced across her mind in letters of fire. And she would remember them until her dying day.

_I love you, Christine. I love you so much it consumes me._

She had not come here for this. She had not wanted to discover the extent of the pain she had inflicted on this man. Inflicted unintentionally, but that did not absolve her. It just hurt all the more, as she had no control over it, no means of releasing him from his torment. She closed her eyes, fighting down tears. If only he had never brought her here! She no longer cared if it was selfish of her to wish such a thing. That innate nobility she had always aspired to could not endure under the weight of such a heavy burden. Why was it that every time she came closer to him, it just brought more pain? She was a girl of eighteen; she had buried a father, a woman she had loved as a mother, had been forced to renounce her father a second time when she realised the foundation of her hopes and dreams had been built on nothing but lies… even the Opera House, the only home she had known since her father had gone, had been burnt to the ground – everywhere she turned, she was surrounded by death –

She could no longer be strong or courageous or stoic, or any of those virtues she had striven to uphold since her return. It was all a fragile facade to prevent her from collapsing. She had _tried _to be strong, to hide her pain from the world, and now Erik was back, and he – he –

Christine realised, she was breathing unevenly, taking deep, gasping breaths, one hand braced against the shelf to hold herself upright. It was too hard. She could not stand this anymore, all of it, it was too much –

She was so close now to just falling to her knees and weeping, as she had last night.

And that must not happen. Not after this great change. Nothing could ever be the same.

Her resolve was beginning to falter and she could not let that happen. For a moment, Christine dimly allowed herself to imagine a future – a future that saw the rest of the life she thought she would have slip away through her fingers like air that couldn't be held – and a blinding, convulsive horror seized her, wrenched more deeply than the remorse that tore her heart. It was hard to breathe, every inhalation a struggle. No. She would not stay with him through pity. She would not. _I can't._ _God forgive me, I can't._

She felt faint and ill. She could barely hold up her head. The contents of his letters had pierced her heart. And she would not embrace that rapturous pain. She had to leave this place. At once. While she still had the strength. It went against her heart to abandon a soul so desperately in need, but to do otherwise would certainly destroy her.

Before she had gathered any sense of control over body, racked with tremors, Christine realised she was running, running to escape, it, him, herself… she came to an unsteady halt at the steps that led to the surface of the lake. Her tear-dashed eyes quickly scanned the oily surface and came to rest on the portcullis. She was familiar enough with Erik's house to know there was no hope of discovering a means of flight through one of the rooms. The gate was the way she had entered; it must also serve as her escape. She just hoped the water wasn't too deep.

There was no boat, nothing she could use to propel herself across the water. Christine removed her slippers slowly, leaving them reluctantly on the bank. A choking sensation rose in her throat. They had been given to her, a gift from Raoul, and she felt as though she were losing a piece of him by abandoning them. But soon she would _(please Lord, let it be so)_ see his tender, ardent face once more, have him hold her cherished in his arms and never be parted from her again… never… never…

There was nothing for it. She would have to wade – or swim, should the necessity arise. She would not allow herself to hesitate, nor to entertain any thoughts or doubts. She had to escape before Erik found new ways to shatter her soul. Even now, those plush, lyrical cadences tugged her, pulled her into that drowning darkness. Oh, to give in to those velvet, evocative tones… _I dread this secret longing, this strange hold you have over me. Why will you not let me go? Why do you pursue me like this?_

His hell-blasted face rose in her mind's eye, pleading and tormented, his voice calling her, the violent and plaintive tones following her over the pounding of her heart, fierce and insistent – no, no, she _must _turn away, she _must _forget –

_Oh Raoul, I will see you again, but if I die, I hope I forget all this before I do!_

Christine braced herself and stepped into the water… and immediately gasped at the sensation of a dozen knives piercing her flesh. She had forgotten – or never had opportunity to realise – how cold the lake was. Her skirts were drenched and beginning to weigh her down and she was already shivering, but she refused to let it daunt her. Wading through the depths of the lake, she made with somewhat unsteady deliberation for the portcullis. She was barely halfway across, and already the water had risen past her knees and was fast approaching her waist.

There must be something, some mechanism or device Erik used to control the entrance. She would find it… she would find it…

Her foot caught on something submerged at the bottom of the misty depths, and she fell face down into the murky depths. For a moment, blinding confusion swirled around her ears, her elbow painfully struck stone. Then she was up again, shivering uncontrollably, pallid as a drowned corpse. Her wet hair clung to her face; numb hands pushed the damp strands away in frustration. Unease had begun to creep in. She was by no means afraid of water, but trapped in such icy depths in what undoubtedly led to the Parisian sewers where she was certain she had seen things _move_, Christine's imagination began to indulge in a series of gruesome outcomes. If anything happened to her down here, who would know? She thought suddenly of Count Philippe's fate and shuddered. The treacherous depths cloying at her hips could pull her down at any instant. What if she blindly wandered into some rip or current from one of the connecting tunnels? Furthermore, even if she did find a way out, how on earth was she to find the way to the surface? The Parisian underworld had probably tunnels enough that she could starve to death without ever coming near the outside world.

_I'm not afraid_, she told herself, over and over. _I'm not afraid_.

She was cold, trapped, and half out of her mind with fear. It meant nothing. For the love of Raoul _(just to _see _him again, at least once!) _she would never stop trying to get back to him, no matter how cold or lonely or hurt or afraid she might be.

_You are the love of my life. I will always come back to you. I am coming, my love. I am coming._

Christine gave a choked, half-sobbing gasp of relief when she was able to cling onto the rungs of the portcullis. Her legs were aching from carrying the additional weight of her clinging garments; her ankle was throbbing from a twist it had received when she had fallen. She was unsure whether she had cut it from the fall, and dreaded the effect the unclean water might have on an open wound. She had heard stories of what happened to victims of blood poisoning. It was a horrible way to die.

Oh God, what had she been thinking? Why had she not simply remained where she was and waited for Raoul to come and rescue her? And he would rescue her. He loved her, more than anything in this life, and would do everything to find her – she should _never _have doubted him. She belonged to him and he to her. No matter where she went, he would find her. She realised that now. Even before daring the depths of hell itself, he would have put every gendarme in Paris on the hunt for her – and she knew he had the influence to carry such a motion forward. It was inevitable he would find her. Of that she had no doubts. But she had come this far. She might as well see if she could make the desperate, foolhardy venture worth something.

The metal framework was beginning to chafe her hands, but she refused to let go. Her foot was throbbing, which filled her with increasing apprehension. Moving unsteadily along, water lapping at her waist as she gripped the portcullis with one hand, she sought to find anything that could give her an indication of how she might open it.

Slow minutes passed in this determined manner, as Christine refused to admit to herself that the effort was futile. She knew, deep down _(had always known) _that Erik was too cunning to install a device that could be discovered by anyone who just happened to be passing by. But still, she must try… she would try…

Greenish light danced around her, causing her blurring vision to play tricks. Wayward, wicked illusions darted before her. Sometimes she was certain she saw things, at one point she willingly plunged into the water in excitement, only to realise she was trying to grasp her own reflection. At this she gave a wild laugh that echoed sadly around the subterranean cavern. Diving for her own shadow! It was no wonder though… she could hardly see a metre in front of her. Black shapes kept swimming before her eyes; she had to keep blinking to push them away…

It was so cold! She wondered if she would ever be warm again. She was shaking uncontrollably, her breath coming short and ragged. If only she didn't feel so light-headed! The icy sensation had penetrated her very bones; every muscle in her body ached. Twice more, she slipped into the water; twice more she pulled herself up. She could no longer stand unaided, but the rungs kept slipping from her fingers... It vaguely occurred to her that she would somehow have to try and swim back. Perhaps she would try when she less tired. Yes, she would rest here first, and try another attempt later. The gate was support enough.

It was laughable, really… here she was trapped alone in an underground lake, yet all she wanted to do was sleep. Exhaustion, like chains, dragged her down. It was cold, oh, so cold… She couldn't move, or breathe, or think. Her body trembled; her eyes grew dimmer and dimmer.

_My God, am I dying?_

Oh! If only she could see Raoul again. She felt as though her heart were wasting away. She would die out of her senses, and Erik – Erik –

If she did escape him, what then?She could fly to the ends of the earth, and still he would come after her... She was too far gone beyond consciousness, too out of her mind with delirium, to know whether the realisation brought her despair or solace.

_I felt death near me once before, darkness and despair, and you came… please come to me now… do not abandon me here alone in this place… forgive me for fleeing, for I can never leave you… Erik… Erik… Oh, it is so dark… and the cold is like death…_

Still her skirts were dragging her down, and perhaps after all, it was easier to yield…

* * *

Erik discovered her moments later: a pallid, lifeless figure draped against the portcullis, long hair floating around her like Ophelia in the river.

Even in the swift paralysing stab of terror that pierced his heart, he did not hesitate. He rowed towards her with swift, frantic strokes, a ragged wail of agony he was not aware of escaping him. With a savage movement, he had torn his gloves off, throwing them heedlessly to the bottom of the boat, and he raised Christine's prone body against the curve of his arm and pressed his trembling fingers against the base of her throat. She was cold as ice, the blue veins visible beneath the marble pallor of her skin, he assumed from the water, God, let it only be from the water…

His hands were shaking so much, his heart palpitating with a queer, unsteady rhythm, at first it was impossible to discern anything, but he gradually became aware of a strong pulse beating beneath his fingers. Such a wave of relief and euphoria overcame him that Erik sank mindlessly into the boat, pulling Christine down with him.

He cradled her gently in his arms, trying to transfer some warmth to her cold figure. He had spent a lifetime railing against God with all his being, but now he unashamedly sent repeated prayers of gratitude heavenward, a hand smoothing Christine's wet tresses, tenderly tracing the lines of her face as though to commit them to memory.

_I thought you were dead and thought I should die myself… never leave me again, for my heart cannot stand it… do you hear me? Christine, do you understand? I cannot live without you. God, never let me live without you…_

Christine's eyes open a fraction. She stared at Erik through blurring eyes, half-faint with delirium. He stroked the damp hair from her fevered brow with burning fingers. It was a gesture of tenderness she had not seen in months, years (ever).

"Erik?" she muttered. "I dreamed of you…"

"You are extremely foolish," he said.

Christine fainted.


	7. Discovery

**The Mask and Mirror**

Chapter 7

The ominous scudding of dark clouds and the dreary atmosphere that hung over Paris like a dense fog seemed to have infiltrated its way into the Giry's household. The air was taut with tension. Madame Giry paced the length of the small sitting room, drab, dove-grey skirts trailing in her wake. Looking out the window, she released a sigh that was more of a hiss through clenched teeth. Meg Giry, in contrast to this picture of agitation, was sat primly in one of the straight-backed chairs; her expression one of mingled concern and exasperation.

"Maman, will you please sit down? You're wearing me out."

"He will come soon," her mother muttered, barely listening. "And by God, when he does, I hope he has an adequate explanation."

She drummed her fingers against the windowpane. She was extremely displeased. Christine had left as usual yesterday afternoon to dine at the De Chagny estate, and Madame Giry had of course seen her off with a smile and an expectation of her arriving home around eleven. Ten thirty the next morning, and she still had not returned.

Oh, the Vicomte was a sly player! And cleverer than she had given him credit for. Admittedly, she had let down her guard. He had been nothing but respectful deference, modesty and kindness throughout the course of his engagement to Christine. She should have known it was too good to be true. Beneath that smooth beguiling exterior, he was a man after all. It was easy enough to imagine what had happened. Christine, in her innocence had dined at his estate, and under the influence of wine, the cover of darkness and the handsomeness of her betrothed, had succumbed to his gentle and soothing persuasions. What on earth had possessed the girl? She had thought Christine to have more sense. Apparently, she had underestimated her naivety and the appealing charm and manipulations of her fiancée. But it was all just so…needless! The two were to be married in a week, why could she not have waited? Christine was a good girl, a devout Catholic, so why had she thrown away one of the Church's most fundamental teachings in a moment of foolish passion?

It was not that she suspected Raoul of being a complete villain. He was hardly about to seduce Christine and abandon her. No, his affection towards her was undoubtedly sincere; his actions and the painstaking preparations for this wedding made that fact irrefutable. On that score, Madame Giry was satisfied. But the whole affair exposed a duplicitous side to his character that was unwelcoming to her. He had taken advantage of the sweet girl's innocence merely to satisfy his own whims, when waiting merely a matter of days would have kept Christine's virtue intact. Madame Giry loved Christine like a daughter, and her measures to see that the girl who had been left alone in the world to its vices was protected seemed to have come to nothing. She had failed at the final hurdle. Her conduct had been irreproachable for so many years, so to be exposed to the censure and gossip of servants she would soon be in charge of was both sad and unnecessary.

The rattle of carriage wheels caused the woman to start, and her head shot upright to look out of the window and see the chaise she had been waiting for. Behind her, Meg stood up uneasily.

"Maman, please do not be too angry with the Vicomte. I am sure there is some explanation –" she began to say, but was silenced by her mother's severe look.

"I need to have words with Christine, _and_ her fiancée. I believe there are chores that need to be done, Meg. I would advise you to see to it."

"I'm not going anywhere!" said Meg angrily.

Before Madame Giry could argue her point, the front door sounded, and in her mood, she savagely thought she could discern a certain tentativeness in the tapping of the knocker. She had no intention of coming down lightly. The Vicomte in particular was about to see the measures through which she had kept the ballet rats on such a tight rein.

Raoul brought the doorknocker down, the dull clanging sound doing little to ease the headache brought about from being up all night. Even the icy November air wasn't helping. He had lain awake until his manservant had entered his room, preoccupied over last night's quarrel. Going over the last few happy months, his jealousy seemed both irrational and ill founded. It was nothing but his own insecurities rising to the fore. Of course, this time next week he was to be a married man. Naturally he was going to be anxious, but accusing the girl of being in love with someone else…! It had been low of him, and worse still, implied that he didn't trust her. Was it any wonder she had been so angry and upset? He had debated whether or not to call on Christine this morning, wondering whether she would even want to see him. After all… he had said some pretty unforgivable things. After mentally wrestling with the problem, he rose with his mind made up. Christine was not of a resentful nature. He was sure once he had apologised, she would be happy enough to forget the whole unpleasant business.

He was dragged from his musings when the door was wrenched open with a savagery that surprised him.

Madame Giry was a more than a little annoyed to see only one of the guilty party present, but seeing the chaise outside, realised Christine must have baulked at the idea of facing her guardian so soon. So be it. She would speak to her later. The sight of Raoul having evidently undergone a sleepless night did nothing to improve her mood.

"Well," she said, without even a greeting, "I hope you are here to explain yourself, monsieur."

Raoul did a double take, both from the lack of civility and the stern expression on her face. He was surprised and slightly hurt that Christine had seen fit to tell Madame Giry of last night's quarrel. Recalling some of what he had said, he inwardly cringed, and reflected it was no wonder the woman was looking so severe. He sighed, and attempted some form of explanation.

"Madame Giry, I'm not sure how much you know of what took place last night –"

"I know enough," she retorted icily. "And I am more disappointed in your conduct than I can say."

Raoul swallowed uneasily, wondering in just what sort of light Christine had painted him. "I know my behaviour towards Christine was reprehensible, after everything she underwent. I admit I was out of line. Believe me, Madame, it was not my intention to let things get so far."

Her eyes lost none of their steely glint. "Christine is a honest girl and to show such a lack of respect towards her is degrading, both to her and yourself. You must realise the state of her position and reputable standing has been jeopardised by your total disregard for respectability!"

He could not help but feel Madame Giry was overreacting. They had quarrelled, yes, but once he saw Christine, he was sure things could be resolved between them. Being used to deferent treatment from most of his acquaintances, he was also becoming increasingly annoyed that she refused to speak to him politely.

"Now, I care for Christine like a daughter –"

"I mean no offence," said Raoul, with all the stiffness of tone that clearly implied he did. "But what takes place between myself and Christine is our affair."

"Not while she remains unmarried! Until such time, she is under _my _guardianship – and will remain so – until she becomes your wife."

"She's as good as!" returned Raoul.

This insinuation was almost more than Madame Giry could bear. "Which is no excuse for your lack of discretion!"

Watching the increasingly heated exchange, Meg cringed; remembering the dressing down she had received once when her mother had caught her kissing a stagehand in the orchestra pit. She was on the verge of intervening, when Madame Giry said: "Now, tell Christine to come in."

Raoul blinked.

"I – what?"

"Christine," she snapped. "Let her come inside, so I can speak to her."

"I don't understand," said Raoul weakly. "Is this a joke?"

"I am not in a laughing mood, monsieur. Neither do I like to be kept waiting."

He could feel his heartbeat drumming in his ears. It seemed to take a while to form words.

"You mean… she's not with you?"

"My patience is tiring," she said sternly.

He struggled to ignore the pounding insistence in his head that told him something was horribly wrong. He leaned forward, intent, anxious. "You don't understand. Christine left me last night; it would have been no later than ten o'clock. Are you telling me she hasn't come home?"

Madame Giry turned white – deathly white. He took a step forward; fearful she was about to fall. The woman spoke with a terrible sort of finality, not even noticing him. "I haven't seen her since she left yesterday evening."

"Then where –?"

"My God," she whispered. "What has happened?"

Meg, who had formerly been watching the exchange curled up in one of the chairs, had sat bolt upright at the turn the conversation had now taken. Although not to be expected from her unassuming exterior, Meg Giry was one of those rare and invaluable people who possess the ability to remain grounded in any situation. Displaying none of the evident anxiety so apparent in her companions despite her affection for Christine, she looked directly at Raoul and said quietly: "What is it that you're suggesting? That Christine is missing?"

Thoughts, fears, possibilities began racing through his mind. _Be reasonable_, he told himself_. Likely this is just a silly mistake, a misunderstanding. She'll show up soon and laugh at us all for being such fools_._ There is no need to panic._ Raoul bit his lip, taking a deep breath before speaking. "Let's be calm about this. Is it possible that she may have just – I don't know – lost track of time?"

"You and I both know Christine better than that. Imaginative she may be, but scatterbrained she is _not_. Something must have happened. When did your carriage leave last night?"

Raoul visibly flushed, conscious of a fault. "Well it – ah – didn't exactly –"

Her eyes flashed. "Can I be hearing this? You mean to say you let her leave your house at that time of night _alone_? What on earth were you thinking?"

"Look!" he said heatedly. She wanted someone to blame. Fair enough. But he wasn't about to be the scapegoat. "It wasn't my – look, we had a slight… disagreement." He paused a brief moment before something occurred to him. "Wait." His head jerked up, an uncommon fire smouldering in his blue eyes. "When she didn't return home last night, did you think that I – we –" His lips thinned as he turned white with anger. "Christine is a respectable girl. What do you take me for, Madame?"

Meg gave her mother a look that quite clearly said _what did I tell you? _Madame Giry had the grace to look slightly ashamed of herself. "Forgive me, but I have the girl's best interests at heart. If I did come to the wrong conclusion –"

"You did," said Raoul with a stony expression.

"Then I apologise."

"We have more important problems at hand." Once again, Meg spoke up. Raoul looked at her in surprise. She was now stood between the pair of them; the softness of her braided hair and prim, neat figure was belied by the hard expression in her brown eyes. "From what you say, Christine must have been missing for over twelve hours."

Madame Giry regarded Raoul, no longer seeking to disguise any unease she was feeling. "You know this isn't her. I think –" her thin frame tensed noticeably – "I think this is a matter for the police."

* * *

Chief Inspector Moreau of the Parisian Commissary de Police eased his portly frame into his chair with a long sigh. His rubbed his brow with a large hand, small eyes greedily surveying the whiskey decanter in front of him. It had been a long morning. Despite the fact that Moreau more often than not delegated the less pleasant aspects of his job to lackeys, he was still of the decided opinion that he deserved a well earned lunch break. He had informed one of the junior officers with all his characteristic bullying and bluster that he was not to be disturbed for the hour. Judging by his watch chain that ensured fifty-five minutes of uninterrupted solitude with the indulgence of his cigars and pleasant meditations on the pretty barmaid he had been fortunate enough to encounter in _Le Pharamond_ restaurant last night. The merry chatter, black curls and rosy cheeks were enough to persuade him that he would certainly be dining out again tonight –

A tapping on the door caused him to jump, dropping hot ash over his trousers. Coughing and cursing, he sat up straighter in his chair. Bad enough that he was being disturbed, but why didn't the buggers knock _properly _instead of all this tip tapping business.

"What?" he said, in the sternest tone he could muster, although the effort came out somewhat hoarse.

The Junior Officer poked his head around the door, wishing this task hadn't been allocated to him.

"Didn't I just say –?" his superior growled angrily, before the officer quickly forestalled the dressing down he was sure to receive.

"Please sir, I know what you said, but there's a man waiting outside. He's refused to leave, I really think you should see him –"

"Man!" snapped Moreau impatiently. "What man?"

"I did what you asked, sir, and told him you were indisposed, and advised him to call back later, but he was – er – rather rude about it. Said some nasty things to a couple of the officers."

"Damn it," muttered the Chief Inspector. He poured himself a glass of whiskey and instantly knocked it back unflinchingly – through years of long practice – the fire that filled his belly doing little to appease his annoyance. The young officer glanced at the decanter half hopefully but the courtesy of offering him a drink was not extended. "Who does this bugger think he is? Why didn't you get a couple of the men to _persuade_ him to leave? I'm sure Jacques would be well up to a little fun this afternoon."

"I didn't think it advisable, sir."

"_Think?_ I don't ask you to think! I ask you to do your job and allow me to have my lunch in uninterrupted peace. Now tell him to get out."

"Yes, but –" a sheen of perspiration was now visible on the junior officer's forehead. "Sir, he's –"

"Who? Who the bloody hell is he to get you in such a dither?"

"The Vicomte De Chagny, sir."

Moreau sat a little straighter in his chair. His cigar rose half way to his lips, before he said: "The Vicomte de Chagny? Isn't he the one in the papers that's marrying some Opera wench? What on earth does _he_ want?"

"I don't know, but he's waiting outside. Shall I call him in?"

"Yes, yes I suppose so."

_Bloody nobility_, he thought. _They say _jump _and we say_ how high? _I only hope he's as rich as the papers claim_.

* * *

An hour and a half later, Meg, who had alternately been pacing the floor and dashing to the window every two minutes almost sank to the floor in relief when she heard the front door. Raoul. At last. She invited him in, choking back an exclamation of surprise as he stepped into the flat. His normally well-groomed hair hung in lank locks against his collar, the opulent material heightening the garish contrast. His eyes were shadowed beneath with dark circles. He looked pale, ill.

"That _horrible_ little man!" he burst out angrily. It was the presence of Meg Giry that prevented him from expressing his opinion more strongly.

"What happened? _Maman! The Vicomte is back! _Come inside, you look frozen. Sit down. Are the police doing anything?"

Raoul shook off the offers of a chair and drink in exasperation. Right now, he wanted nothing more than to be left alone. Just anything for a moment's peace. He had barely had time to think since all this had started. It was strange. He knew – because it could hardly be a deception – that Christine was missing. Yet he couldn't feel anything except this odd sort of coldness. How long had it been now? Surely, he should feel something? Anything? He pressed his face against his hands, cool fingers slightly alleviating the throbbing in his temples. God, he hoped never to repeat an hour like _that _ever again.

Madame Giry entered and both mother and daughter began with a similar tirade of questions.

"Did you speak to the police, monsieur?"

"Is there a search taking place?"

"Did you tell them everything?"

"Can we do anything to help?"

"_Enough!"_ said Raoul loudly, shocking them both into silence. He knew his behaviour was odious, especially in their house, but right now, he couldn't care less. His head ached, he felt dizzy, and if he didn't have a cup of coffee soon he was going to pass out. "Yes, I've spoken to them. Well, the Chief Inspector mainly. A man named Moreau who, frankly, is a discredit to the police force. He didn't take my claims too seriously, saying nothing much could be done as Christine hasn't been missing for twenty four hours." He ran a hand through his hair and closed his eyes. Then a grim smile ghosted over his features. "At least, that was until I said I'd help in any way: money, resources, whatever it took. There's a search going on now. Detectives are combing Paris."

Madame Giry did not seek to hide her scepticism. "Are you sure they can do their job reliably?"

"Oh yes. Moreau's a repulsive fellow, but at the prospect of money, he'll get the job done. I know his type. I was actually impressed at how quickly he had the officers out searching." Raoul spoke wearily. Tiredness was beginning to set in, which was a relief, because he knew if he remained awake he was going to think about Christine, and if that happened… they needed to be strong now because he was close, so close to falling apart and that _must not happen_. More than anything he wanted to sleep, in some vain attempt to dispel some of the poisonous fear that had begun seeping its way into his system. But he couldn't. Not yet, not yet…

"That's a small mercy, at least," Madame Giry breathed.

"Can we not do anything?" said Meg, in a tight, strained voice. "Shouldn't we be, I don't know, out there searching?"

"That's what I'm about to do. I gave the police your address, as it's closer. They'll come here when they have any news." He moved towards the door. It didn't matter that he was numb and almost blinded with exhaustion. Christine needed him, and while he was is this half deadened state, hopefully it would prevent him from descending into mindless panic. He could feel it brewing, stabbing at the corners of his brain. He just needed to keep it at bay until this – this strange nightmare of a situation was resolved. His heart was behaving queerly: fluctuating with an unpleasant frenzied rhythm. If he threw himself into the task of finding her, perhaps he could hope to ignore it.

Madame Giry caught his arm. "You are not going anywhere, Monsieur, in your state. You need to rest and – have you even eaten today?"

"I need to help," he said tightly. Even the bizarre situation of having Madame Giry acting like a mother hen passed by him unnoticed.

"You need to sleep," she retorted crisply, with a momentary return of her old formidability. "There is nothing we can do but wait. They clearly want us here so they can contact us as soon as there is news."

Raoul looked at her with haunted eyes. Watching from the doorway, Meg shivered. She rarely indulged in contemplation, but something about him in that instant, that second, held her. She couldn't look away. His healthy features in the sickly winter sunlight looked hollowed and worn. For a moment, he appeared older and more wearied than the woman in front of him. This was how he would look in forty, fifty years time. He had already gone through more heartache and adversity than most men twice his age. His nature was too good, too kind and benign for this. He wasn't made for hardship. For someone who had everything, his world was rapidly falling apart.

"Fine," he said in a lifeless tone. "I just hope to God it's soon."


	8. How thou art fallen

(A/N: Probably the last update until exams are finished, so please be patient. If you like it, REVIEW.)

**The Mask and Mirror**

_Distance is covering your way,  
Tears your memory  
All this beauty is killing me_

_Oh, do you care,  
I still feel for you  
Oh, so aware,  
What should be lost is there_

_I fear I will never, never find anyone  
I know my greatest pain is yet to come  
Will we find each other in the dark  
My long lost love_

(Nightwish – Beauty of the Beast)

Chapter 8

She had tried to leave him.

That was the overwhelming, the undeniable truth. It pierced him like a splinter through the heart.

He loved her so much, yet she could only recoil from him in terror and loathing. How could it be possible? How could a God exist and inflict such cruelty? He had tried so hard, all these weary days and months. All for nothing. He was clinging to what he could never have. The harder he tried, the more elusive she became, slipping through his hands like mist or moonlight, something beautiful and ethereal. At this moment in time, she was sleeping only feet from him, but never had she seemed so far away.

Was there anything in this world but pain?

Erik was slumped over the organ seat, breathing, because there was nothing more he could do, breathing, just to get through the next moment and all the moments after that must inevitably follow. Life stretched relentlessly ahead: infinite, grey, forbidding. Oh, the world was a bleak place without love or hope! Forever was a long time to be alone. Even death could not hurt as much as this. It was better to die than to remember. His heart seemed to have collapsed inside his chest, as though the bitter weight it carried had become too much at last. Yet it continued beating, reminding him that he was alive, alive… and he was not hers. But still he would love her, until his last breath.

"Christine…" he muttered hoarsely, feeling his throat tear at the sound. "Christine, why did you run? Why do you always run? I promised to love you and I kept my promise. I kept my promise. I always will. I won't abandon you. Never, never, never…"

_Never, never, never…_

The walls repeated his words back to him in mockery. He was deluding himself. Perhaps there truly was no cure for his loneliness. After all, she was good and kind, and warm hearted, whereas he… he was bitter, cynical, plagued by hatred, haunted by desire. _Could_ anything ever grow from two such dissimilar souls?

Dissimilar yes; but bound together through a love for music. When she had sung for him last night, he had watched her intently: alive to every expression that trembled through her eyes and knew – knew with a conviction that denied all reasoning – that never before had she experienced such an intensity of emotion. When she rested her head against his and he felt the warmth of her skin, the scent of her hair and saw her utterly surrender without restraint, there had been his brief glimpse of heaven. It had been the agony of the crucifixion and the ecstasy of the resurrection all in one. But all things must come to an end. The gate was shut. That all too fleeting moment would not be a source of comfort to him, but merely serve as a reminder of what he could never have.

And Erik wept.

Wept hot, unrestrained tears with heaving, convulsive shudders. There was no use brushing them away. More would fall; fiery streams that were almost comforting. At least this was real, tangible. At least this excess of storm and fervour were proof he could still _feel_. Silver moisture flashed on his clenched hands with a pearly luminescence. Blindingly beautiful, brighter than the dim candlelight of his home, brighter by far than the gnawing darkness he was left alone with. It was eating away at him inside, like a cancer.

His hands had half drifted instinctively towards the organ in front of him. The desire to play something was overwhelming. It was only Christine, in the depths of an uneasy sleep that stayed his hands. He wanted to forget. To bury himself in his music until nothing else mattered, allowing the notes to take possession of him. Intensity and emotion tore through him like an electric storm. He wanted out. He wanted to throw himself into the crescendo and feel himself being burned, broken, annihilated. Nothing else mattered but the temptation to end this and to submit to a stronger force, so he no longer had to be himself. Anything to feel release.

Oh God. _Christine…_

How did she hurt him like this?

How could someone so gentle and innocent inflict so much heartache and torment?

He glared over at the bed, feeling tightening coils of tension in the pit of his stomach. She really had no idea… lying there lost in the depths of oblivion. Sleep had long since ceased to hold any rest for him. She even invaded his dreams. Her neck was exposed, startlingly white in contrast to the mass of dark curls. Crimson sheets covered her torso in rippling disorder. How easy it would be… just to gather them around her pale throat and end it there. Finish the entire bitter fiasco. No more would she be able to trample over his emotions. Had anyone else come anywhere near as close to weakening him, he would have ended their existence long before this. But that face, those eyes, her voice…

_Erik, I always cared for you, I never stopped, I –_

"Stop it!" he snarled, realising he had spoken aloud when the walls threw the word back at him. She had lied to him. And he had believed her. Hadn't life told him never to trust people? Surely he must know that by now! Everyone lied. Even Christine. He had been fooled again by her sweetness and naivety. It had been nothing but a charade to placate him, while all the time she had been waiting for a chance to escape. She had run at the first possible opportunity.

And she had thought _his_ betrayal was cruel.

He could kill her, but still, still he hungered for her! Even if that desire caused him nothing but pain. Bringing her here had merely twisted the knifepoint in his heart. It was killing both of them. But then – why should it not? Why should she be allowed happiness if he could have none?

The Vicomte could give Christine the life she wanted, but Erik still wasn't going to give her up. It might be selfish, but after everything he had gone through, didn't he _deserve_ some happiness? _Perhaps people like me aren't made for happiness._ No. He would not believe it. He would not accept defeat. The fact that burned him more than anything was that – for all his wishes to the contrary – he knew that Raoul was a genuinely good man. Not only was he handsome and dashing and – the clichéd term came in spite of himself – _heroic_, he had other, more commendable qualities. He was genuinely kind and sincere, loyal and devoted to those he loved, yet still sensible and mature. There was no doubt the better man had won. It was this undeniable truth that caused the masked man to growl deep in his throat with rapidly building anger.

He had been wrong in thinking his violent impulses towards the Vicomte had abated. He wanted to believe the rage in him had subsided, but it had been pride, not sincerity, that made it seem so. To hate Raoul was in his blood, just as it was to love Christine: something that was primal and a part of him. It was not everyone's fate to have an ultimate enemy in this world. It was ironic really, of all those great and powerful rulers he had incurred the wrath of over the years, it fell on the shoulders of a young naïve nobleman – almost a boy – to arouse the fury of a creature of darkness. He knew now if Raoul sought to prise from Christine from him again, he would have to finish the job he had begun in the cellars of the Opera.

Erik looked up; fire-reflecting eyes flashed malevolence.

Suddenly, he had become the man who could commit murder again.

He had turned soft. He knew that now. Even in Europe, his survival had been jeopardised on many an occasion by his pangs of conscience. Christine – his love for her – had weakened him for a time, loosening those bonds of anger and hatred that held him together. With that lost, what was he? He smiled with dark irony. An emotional wreck; allowing himself to be tossed around by self-pity, as helpless as a sea governed by tides. Well, no longer. Was it any wonder Christine could not love him: a mere wretch crippled by insecurity and self-doubt? What had happened to him? Time was he was secure in his power and utter ruthlessness. There had been no uncertainty then. He had lived his life with a clear drive and purpose. Anyone not a friend was an enemy, and thus was dealt with accordingly.

He missed that clarity.

It was time to return to his old ways.

A soft sigh caused him to spin round in shock. A swift glance at the bed, and he saw Christine stirring. Agony and indecision rooted him to the spot. He was torn between the conflicting impulses of anger and tenderness. Her reaction would decide his. If she recoiled, it was done. Eyes narrowed, watching every movement with wariness. What was she thinking? What was going through that pretty head?

_Light. Soft and dusky, it infiltrated her eyelids, pulling her away from the creeping cold sensation of swirling, eddying water around her. She thought she could never be warm again. The current sought to drag her under with pale, icy fingers. But that illumination, lambent, glowing, was becoming stronger and now there _was _warmth and the feel of silk caressing her skin – _

Christine pressed her face deeper into the pillows, inhaling the heavy scent that reminded her simultaneously of roses, incense, and the sharpness of a cold winter's night. She turned over, passed a hand across her forehead and slowly opened her eyes.

Her dress had been changed. She was wearing a white shift and the thought that someone – _he_ – must have done it for her was enough to bring a blush rushing into her face… She could not have known he had carried out the entire action with his eyes determinedly averted. She tried to push away the thought that he must have seen her in a state of undress, aware how she was feeling suddenly very flustered.

"Erik?"

Erik. The man paused, stiffening with a sudden hesitance. The name sounded curiously meaningless and somehow detached from himself. Who was she speaking to? Who was he? Was he that murderer that ruthlessly committed atrocities without remorse, or was he the pitiful creature subdued by grief and weariness? Perhaps both. Or neither.

The sight of her, so young, so innocent, flush from sleep: she was as delicate and pure as the roses he had once lavished upon her… he bit the inside of his cheek until he tasted blood. It was nothing but lies, a deception. A beautiful deception, but a deception nevertheless. Look inside and it was merely a bauble, dazzling on the exterior, but fragile as glass, the interior hollow. He had indulged in self-pity too long. Why must he crumble at the mere sight of her, when he had once been the very definition of ruthlessness! She had reduced him to a bitter mockery. He was stronger than this. He had offered her everything, and she had _dared_ throw it back in his face? Did she _know_ who he was, what he was capable of? Perhaps it was time to show her. After all, he had nothing left to lose.

Show no mercy. Expect none.

She wanted to think he was a monster.

He would give her one.

Christine tried to gather her still-disordered senses. Memories of her foolhardy escape attempt swam back and she cringed. What had she been thinking? It had achieved nothing more than crushing any last hope that Erik could be saved. All through one, stupid act of selfishness and cowardice. Now she would have to face the consequences. She looked up – and felt her insides dissolve. Something in Erik's eyes had shattered since she had last seen him, something that she wondered could ever be put right. Something _she_ had broken. He was moving towards her with a characteristically fluid movement, as though his body – like his soul – was governed by music only he could hear. But there was something predatory in the approach that caused the muscles in her throat to constrict. A moment ago she had wanted nothing more than to talk to him.

Now her instincts were telling her to back away.

_Stop this_, she berated herself. For why should there be fear?

"Awake at last. How are you feeling?" Whatever was in his tone, it wasn't concern.

"Better… I think." Better. Such a simple word, but the more she thought about it, the further from the truth it started to become. Erik was watching her with an implacable look. She wondered if he suspected she was about to flee again. But even if she had the energy, would she try? She felt numb and exhausted. She tried to sit up and a bolt of pain shot through her foot. She drew in a sharp breath.

"Hurts, doesn't it?" he said softly.

"Erik –"

"Trust me, I'm quite the connoisseur when it comes to pain, you know. Oh, there are lots of different kinds, I learnt that in Persia. I was _very_ well trained. What you're experiencing now is physical pain: the sharp, surface kind. Then there's the deeper wounds – loss of a hand, a limb. I saw a lot of those. It's funny; you don't even feel it at first. It's almost like a violation it runs so deep. Later, it throbs and burns, beyond anything you could comprehend. I know that pain." His voice was offhand, detached, but there was a wild look in his eyes she had not seen since _that_ night… and she knew he was angered beyond anything she had ever seen. She clenched her fists, swallowing down her unfolding tension.

"Your hands," he said indifferently.

Christine glanced down at her knuckles. They were still bruised and swollen from the pounding they had received on the carriage window the preceding night (_only last night?_) How had she not noticed it before? She slid them beneath the sheets and out of sight.

A blank and pitiless gaze. "You really should be more careful. Otherwise you might really hurt yourself."

An irresistible sense of resignation momentarily overpowered her, making speech difficult. "Erik, I'm sorry." Said aloud, it sounded woefully inadequate.

A very cold, strange feeling ran through his stomach. Something inside him seemed to clench, and it was an effort to say coolly: "For what? Trying to run, or the fact that I found you?"

Christine fell briefly silent. She couldn't believe they were back to this. The disdain, the sarcasm. Years of honing the technique meant Erik could be cutting with painful precision. Her mind was reeling; both from his words and the fact this conversation had taken a completely different turn to what she had wished. Yet… a part of her – the honest part – acknowledged she probably deserved this for being such a coward. Her mind tried a vain grasp on reality. "How long was I…?"

"You've been asleep several hours. Why? Reluctant to wake up, were you? Didn't like what you'd be coming back to?" His lip curled in contempt. "Or perhaps you were just hoping this is all some rather terrible nightmare?"

"I never –"

"If you wanted a nightmare, you should have asked." His voice had become menacing and finally in earnest. "You have _no_ idea how easy you have had it here. Have I not given you food, shelter, clothing, and demanded nothing in return? Do you realise how generous I have been with you up until now? Twice I have had you at my mercy, and have done nothing. I am warning you, Christine, don't make me angry. I can be cruel as well. You know me well enough to be sure of _that_."

She stood up; the covers fell from her in a brilliant pool of scarlet, billowing round her white skirts like spreading blood. She was goaded into a sharp reply. "I think it cruelty enough to kidnap someone and imprison them against their will and separate them from their betrothed. Besides, the reason I –"

His hand shot out and caught her wrist. She was aware of sudden fear – and her pulse leaping beneath his fingers, blood rushing through her body.

"Don't push me, Christine. I don't want excuses. Neither do I appreciate being made a fool of."

She tried to prise her hand away, aware of her nerve endings humming. "_When_ did I ever –"

His grip tightened. "Oh, let me see – yes, I remember now! You have spent the last eighteen hours playing me like a puppeteer. Drawing me to you one moment, pushing me away the next, and letting me dangle. I am _not _some toy for you to play with and be discarded at your leisure. I wonder how you dared think it for a moment."

"If that's what you think," she began in a shaking voice, "then I'm –"

"What? Going home? This is your home now, my dear. At least temporarily. Try and make the best of it."

Christine wrenched her hand from his, wanting to place as much distance between them as possible, and looked around: the dimly lit dwelling, the beautiful instrument, the ornaments some of which still remained. This could have been a paradise. And now…

His voice snapped her back to reality. "Quite the damsel in distress, aren't we? Well, this is no a fairy tale. There will be no gallant knight galloping to your rescue. Well, a lasso around the neck would rather slow the process, I imagine." He laughed softly. She cringed and looked down. Tense hands scrunched the silken fabric of her gown. It slid like water through her fingers.

"You changed my dress."

An elaborate shrug. "But of course. I hardly wanted you to freeze to death, what do you take me for! Although I do have a perfectly adequate bathroom for your use, but then –" he smiled widely beneath the mask – "there is nothing quite so _bracing_ as a refreshing dip in the lake!"

She clenched her jaw, refusing to let his taunting remarks rile her. "Stop this. I understand you must be feeling betrayed, but –"

"Oh, you _understand! _Well that makes everything alright then, doesn't it?"

"Erik –"

"You really can't see it, can you? You _still_ persist in living in some pretty illusion! I saw that at once. What else could have made you believe I was an Angel? You interpret me by what you wish to believe, my poor, naïve child. You want me to be some lost soul in need of redemption. Or perhaps…" he leaned forward, his expression suddenly wolfish… "You wanted a dashing villain? I hardly know about dashing, my dear, I'll leave that to your fanciful imagination, but I _am _a villain. I watched the Opera House burn and laughed. I planned its destruction with a song in my heart. I devised others, endless tortures, with no qualms of conscience. The power, the rush was all that mattered. It was intoxicating. Do you know what it feels like to snap a man's neck with your bare hands?"

A year ago, she would have been backing away in fear. But this wasn't a year ago and she had changed since then. Instead, she felt a spark of anger ignite inside her, and a sense of outrage. What right had _he _to lecture her on morality? He, who blithely confessed to having none. "Why are you telling me this? Do you mean to frighten me? Because I'm not afraid of you."

"Really?" His voice glided over her like dark liquid; the same sensual, enticing tones that had drawn her to him in _Don Juan,_ and – she would not think on it! "I am rarely mistaken, my dear, and from what I could tell, you were positively quaking in terror at the mere sight of me! Isn't that what drove you into the arms of your precious Vicomte? So come, tell me! I confess myself rather intrigued. What is it about me that no longer inspires you with such dread?"

"Because I've seen the real you. And this isn't it."

"Are you _quite_ sure about that, Christine? I seem to recall – yes, I believe it was you who told me – that it was my _soul_ that was distorted." She flinched as he threw her own words back at her. He sounded dismissive now, almost bored. "So this persistent charity of yours all seems rather pointless, doesn't it?"

Her nails were digging crescents into her palms.

Again, another swift change of mood, so rapid it startled her. Perhaps she had forgotten his volcanic unpredictability of temper. "You wanted to see the _real me_," he said viciously. He tore at the white mask and threw it passionately across the room. "Then see it! After all, anything you want Christine. That's what I've always done for you, isn't it?"

Christine stood very still. It was a long time since she had seen his deformity; it seemed she had forgotten how severe it was. Now it was made all the worse by its contrast with the unscarred side of his face and his expression twisted in hellish rage. Raw inflamed skin was exposed to her; flesh hanging in loose folds, pouching below one of the catlike eyes that were narrowed at her in baleful hatred. The intricate working of veins could be seen; the shadowy light heightening hollows and contours among the dun red scars that trickled down in a distorted maze from forehead to jaw line. Yet the sight of his face no longer brought her any horror. The physical deformities were not what caused her chest to contract into a sullen ache and the words to crumble to ash in the base of her mouth. It was the anguished expression in his dark eyes that both accused and pitied at once, the tears running in glistening paths down his cheeks. Not since the fateful night of _Don Juan_ had he looked at her with such fury and betrayal. His face blurred before her gaze.

His voice – so beautiful it hurt – now clanged with dissonance, like a familiar instrument that hadn't been properly tuned. "Still in a state of Christian generosity? Still prepared to forgive and forget –"

Erik's tirade halted into speechlessness, as with a slow, tentative movement, Christine reached up and stroked the scarred flesh of his cheek.


	9. Fire and Ice

**The Mask and Mirror**

_I'm sinking in the roses  
Falling down to fade away  
The velvet blade of apathy  
Makes the crush so bittersweet_

_And I, I could have died last night  
But I heard the voice of a smaller god  
And I, I could have died last night  
But I heard the voice of a smaller god_

(Darling Violetta, A Smaller God)

Chapter 9

For a moment, Erik seemed almost to lean into her touch, but it could have been her imagination, as an instant later, he had wrenched himself away, harsh ragged breaths filling the space between them. "What is this?" he rasped. "Ever you think up new ways to torture me?" His eyes were so dark they crackled at the edges like blistering coals.

His anger was frightening. Since returning here, Christine had always told herself she didn't fear Erik anymore, and, for a time, had believed it to be true. He had been submissive, and wretched and imploring. He had awakened her compassion. Had he deliberately made it so, to lower her guard? He was a magician, after all, a master of illusion. And it had worked. Had he not always been able to manipulate her as he wished?

How could she have forgotten how dangerous he was? Hadn't she always told herself, never, never be fooled by him?

She watched him now with a new caution: a large graceful figure in his elegant ruffled shirt. His skin was golden; many shades darker than the ivory material. Hair dark as night brushed his collar. His frame was wild and wary, shuddering with something between fury and desire. Raoul never looked like this. Raoul never looked as though he were on the brink of losing all self-control. But then Raoul would never hurt her, either.

Could she honestly say the same about Erik?

Christine's hands curled into fists in a subconscious defensive gesture. She wanted to run from the burning hunger in his gaze. No one could look with such an expression in their eyes unless they were insane. Unmasked, his face was half angel, half demon. He was beautiful and monstrous. Intoxicating and terrifying. But then, she recalled wonderingly, even Lucifer must have been beautiful before the Fall.

"I am _tired _of these games, Christine." There was the beginning of a sharp metallic edge to his voice. It reminded her of the coppery tang when you tasted blood. "Perhaps it is time I indulged in a few of my own, hmm? You would not deny your Angel that, surely?"

Before she could speak, he had moved with the speed of a striking snake, wrapping an arm around her waist, pulling her hard against him.

It was like an electric shock. Goosebumps erupted across her bare arms as her heart reacted with a sudden, violent spasm. She was aware of fear somewhere, but it seemed somehow remote and detached from herself. Not as real as the sensation of being pressed so close to him, alive to heat, hardness, and that unique decadent scent that was so very _Erik. _She closed her eyes without realising she was doing so. His hands glided across her torso like ripples of water, only water didn't paralyse you with darts of fire.

But she did feel as though she were drowning.

"I said," his voice hardened; chills enveloped her body like tendrils of frost. "You would not deny me that?"

A shiver coursed through her. Could she ever deny him anything?

"No." Her voice seemed to come from far away. It sounded faint, unlike her. "I wouldn't."

This wasn't right. Even in _Don Juan _when they had been in a similar embrace, it had felt nothing like this. They were entwined like lovers, but there was nothing loving in his voice. On the contrary, it was like the blast of icy winter's air. "Where is your real Erik now, my dear?" He laughed softly, but there was no amusement in it. "You are clinging to something that does not exist. The real Erik would break you in an instant." His hold on her tightened. She drew a sharp intake of breath as one hand brushed across her hipbone in mockery of a lover's caress.

"You are tense, Christine." He breathed softly in her ear, stirring the curls by her cheek. She fought down the urge the jerk her head away. "Good. You should be."

She dared a glance upwards, into his face.

It was a long time since she'd seen him up so close. She had become so used to the mask: that porcelain immobility that reflected candlelight off its surface, hard and cold and impassive. Seeing him now – _really _– seeing him, was a curious sensation. Without the protective barrier, everything about him was intensely alive: the pulse beating strongly in his throat, the twist of the harsh yet sensual mouth, the flush of colour tingeing the golden hued skin of his unscarred cheek. He was watching her with a mixture of dark amusement and the wariness of a caged tiger. Energy thrilled through every tensed muscle of his being, the suppleness and catlike agility odd to see in his large frame.

But she could also feel his heart beating, thundering against hers, and the hint of a smile curved her lips. Understanding dawned on her as she realised who was really in control.

He had noticed her change in expression and smiled lazily. "You see," he murmured. "It is not so bad." His fingers ran down the elegant line of her neck, coming to dip in the hollow of her throat. Her blood hummed.

With every ounce of self-will she possessed, Christine brought her hands to his chest and shoved him away, hard.

"Enough!" she said.

Taken by surprise, Erik staggered backwards ungracefully. He threw out a hand against the side of the organ to steady himself, chest heaving with shock. He stared up at her, his expression dark and unreadable.

"Don't," she said in tight voice, "touch me again."

One shaking hand pressed against her mouth then all at once, the fire in her died. The face that turned to his was the one he first met grieving for a father: lost, lonely, afraid. The one look pierced his heart more fully than any words or striking him had yet done. He felt his legs buckle under him, and he slid to his knees. Emotion crashed over him like a tidal wave. What the hell had he done? Her figure swayed before him in a haze of half-light.

"Oh my God," he rasped. "Christine – I –"

She took a step closer to him, eyes blazing once more. "Get up," she said coldly. Stunned, bewildered, he obeyed unthinkingly. He unsteadily got to his feet, a tightness crushing his throat, his chest, his limbs. What had she done to him? He leaned back heavily on the organ, trying to recover himself. He coughed and tried to swallow. "Christine, please –" his voice was hoarse. She ignored it.

Levelling her gaze at him, he noticed now that her eyes were shining. Her voice shook. "I offered you pity and _this_ is how you repay me. I thought things might be different. When I read –" she broke off and continued harshly – "but you won't change, you never will. But I have. I am _not _your victim anymore, Erik. I am not some naive child you can corrupt or entice with beautiful lies." Her face was blank, emotionless. "I am not anything anymore. You've seen to that."

Something choked in her throat then, she turned and ran to her room, locking the door as she finally felt tears stream down her cheeks.

She had not cried since he captured her.

* * *

The storm of tears had passed and Christine now lay prone on the bed, aware of nothing but an aching well of emptiness. Her fingers clenched and unclenched the bed sheets unconsciously. It was hard to breathe in here. She stared up at the swirling dust motes that caught the shadowy half-light and vaguely wondered how long it had been since she had seen sunlight. It felt as though she had lived many lives since his carriage had found her.

With a sigh, she sat upright, pushing her hands through her hair. She didn't need a mirror to know how she must look: tear blotched, wild eyed and exhausted. She stared down at her hands. Her knuckles had blossomed in blue-black bruises; there were red crescents in her tender palms where her nails had dug into her skin, one of her nails had been torn from scrabbling with the portcullis that morning. Erik hadn't given her any of these injuries directly but he may as well have done.

She remembered him sat at the organ: grieving, pleading, eyes haunted with an irrevocable sadness.

She remembered him trembling with passion, white-hot fire where his hands touched her, his smouldering looks.

Christine buried her face in her knees, feeling the thump of her pulse in her eardrums. It was not enough to drown out the thoughts teeming through her brain. Every tangled emotion she was feeling all came from him. He said he loved her. She gave a bitter, choking laugh. Love! You didn't hurt the people you loved. Didn't he see how unhealthy, how destructive their relationship was?

Christine thought suddenly of Raoul and felt her heart would burst. Oh, how she missed him! Dear Raoul, her sweetheart, her beloved, whom she would never stop loving. His image rose in her mind; the tall lean figure characterised by its unconscious ease and confidence, golden-brown hair and sky blue eyes, his smile filled with such open warmth and sincerity. It took her back to those days of bliss and the knowledge that in his arms, the world was a safer place. She was filled with sudden, intense longing. He had fought so hard for her, even now must be trying tirelessly to find her; she couldn't possibly leave him. The very idea was unthinkable. She could no more imagine an existence without Raoul than she could cut off her own hand without pain. It was only to save his life that she had agreed to trade herself in marriage to a man she feared. But now Raoul's life was no longer at stake. It was hers.

He wasn't like the other noblemen that populated the Opera, chasing after chorus girls merely to seduce them for one night's pleasure. No, Raoul had wanted her for who she was, he loved her for herself. He had known her since they were childhood friends and remained unfailingly constant. He had defied long absence, class divide, a madman who had sought to possess her. Was there ever more evidence of a truer love? Further still, he sought to marry her and give her a life of comfort and security.

Dearest Raoul, who loved and knew her – had known her since childhood. There was no question of his affection being sincere. But could the same be said of Erik? He professed to love her. But was it really Christine he was in love with? Or had his corrupted existence caused him to elevate her to an unconscious ideal, symbolic of innocence and purity? She sighed, her head in her hands. Was it merely an idea he worshipped, one she could never aspire to? The thought of living up to his high expectation of her was exhausting. She had faults enough, she knew: she could be idealistic, overly trusting, vulnerable and at times, passive. Did Erik love her because of, or in spite of, these flaws?

Christine stood up in frustration, and began pacing the generously sized room. She was being ridiculous! It was Raoul's emotions she should be worrying about, not Erik's.

Then an awful doubt began to snake its way around her brain. Did Raoul _really_ know her, deep down? Had he ever known her, the way Erik did? She hated that he knew her so well. Hated it. God, even the memory of being in Erik's arms, the heavy masculine scent of him surrounding her, his hands on her skin was enough to send the blood rushing through her veins with a shameful warmth. Christine had been brought up a respectful girl, and there was a horrible sense of impropriety that the remembrance should cause her anything other than revulsion and outrage. Would Raoul be shocked and appalled to learn of the depth of her desires? Christine was hardly to know that fervently – though secretly – wishing her encounters with her fiancée could go beyond a kiss was completely natural to any girl approaching womanhood. Society still deemed such sentiments among well-bred women to be immodest.

But Erik, who deliberately withdrew from society, was bound by no such conventions. He was ruled entirely by his passions. There had been a heady rush of intoxication throughout that performance of _Don Juan _at the thought of surrendering entirely to the arms that held her so tightly with no thought of restraint. The sensation was terrifying… and strangely thrilling. Even now when she closed her eyes, Christine could recall his heavy body pressed against hers, transferring a searing wave of longing heat, as they stood entwined. Large, almost predatory hands guiding her slim white fingers across her waist, ragged breathing ghosting the back of her neck, sending shivers spiralling across her exposed flesh. He had unlocked a pillar of fire within her slender frame that months of decorum and civilised society had done little to subdue. Ever since coming here, she had been secretly terrified of his awakening that buried emotion that raged and thirsted and annihilated. It was life and death, madness and clarity, desperation and release. The feeling had slumbered uneasily. She terribly feared he had awoken it again.

Oh, to be with Raoul once more! What had she let herself in for? Every passing minute he seized her with new apprehensions. She never knew if she would be facing madman, victim or seducer.

She wanted him out. Out of her life, out of her thoughts, but still he crawled his way back in, poisoning her prospect of happiness. Every second she passed here, moment by moment, prolonged the youth killing dependence on him. She should have let Raoul kill him that night. The memory returned to her a little like a dream, only this time it played out differently. The tableau was essentially the same; Raoul's fair hair wild and disordered, filled with snow, his bloodless face fixed on the man lying before him, sword upraised. But the outcome was very different. The sword flashed in the moonlight, ice-like, before descending in a shimmering arc. The snow stained with red, red blood. She felt an almost savage pleasure that tore at her heart when she imagined those dark eyes forever closed, unable to mock her anymore.

A moment later she had brought her hands to her mouth as she choked in horror.

What was he turning her into?

He terrified her. He captivated her. Why could she not hate him?

She knew why.

With shaking hands, Christine pulled out the batch of dampened letters from her dress. The paper was beginning to curl and the ink had smudged, but the words were still legible. She stared down at the elegant sloping handwriting, the earnest pleas that had wrenched her heart. The intensity of her gaze could have burned a hole in the paper. This was the one part of him that was human; that betrayed there was still a man beneath the outer shell of loathing and lust. While these papers remained, she could never wish him dead. Her grip tightened as she was filled with a maddened desire to tear the letters to shreds.

_Why Erik, _she screamed in a silent agony of hysteria as she sank to her knees, _why do you do this? Why do you torment me like this? Why, why, why –_

* * *

The darkness receded and sensation had begun to return. Inch by slow inch, Erik clung to the organ and pulled himself upright. He didn't know how long he had been curled up on the floor, shaking with trammels of emotion. It returned to him in a disordered confusion of images and sensations. Violent pangs of lust, murderous impulses, and the shredding agony of remorse. Erik gathered the material of his shirt in his hands, fisting the crisp, clean fabric as he twisted his hands this way and that, waiting for his rapid heart rate to slow. God, what wouldn't he give for it to stop all together, and thus give him some blessed relief. He stared unmoving at the score sheets that littered the floor, damp and stained with footprints. He could still see her now: the pale face beneath the cloud of dark hair, the shaking of that increasingly fragile body. She was like a beautiful porcelain doll that would fracture if he held onto her too tightly.

When all he had ever wanted was to protect her.

_What have I done? What have I done?_

Erik kicked the organ stool with a vicious movement, aware if a stinging sense of pleasure as it flew across the room, thudding into one of the bookshelves with a resounding, violent clarity of noise. If Christine had heard it, there was no evidence forthcoming from the room with the locked door. Feeling a surge of aggression that could only purge itself through the violence of destruction, he made his way haphazardly through the dwelling, searching for more things to break, to fracture, to splinter. Rifling through what was left of his possessions; books, sketches, models, it wasn't enough, he needed something more, something bigger…

Charging down the steps in a crazed movement, Erik came to the shores of the lake and stopped with a dizzying suddenness. The one reflection was all it took. To see the monster staring back at him with all the hellfire of Lucifer in his eyes, the madness of rage distorting the features until even the darkness would fear it. A broken sound escaped Erik and he staggered back up the steps, groping blindly for the mask. What had he done? What had he done to deserve this face? How _dare _God inflict this curse upon him and then abandon him as though ashamed of his own creation? Father! A blind, foolish parent who had _no idea _of the sheer hopelessness, the agony that came from denying him everything; even to walk in the sunlight! He could perhaps have borne it had he been denied human emotions, as he was denied a human face. But no, the real torment came in loving. He loved, that was the agony of it. And worse still, he lusted.

He could still recall the feel of her in his arms. The curves of her slim waist, tantalising against the silken fabric of her gown, rich curls that demanded he entwine his hands in them, porcelain skin he would defy any power on earth to taste…

Erik almost moaned aloud, but forcibly prevented himself, biting down hard on his leather gloved hand that was curled into a fist. It wasn't until he held her that he realised just how much restraint he had really imposed upon himself. It took all his power not to be driven mad by her white shoulders, or bewitching scent, or the subtle grace that was as sensual as it was shy – or the knowledge that her surrender would lead to paradise. Oh, he wanted her heart. But he couldn't deny he wanted her body. The worst of it was, he could almost imagine that he felt her submit – just for a moment. The sheer madness of this idea brought him back to reality. Was there no end to his self-delusion? The feel of her frenetic heartbeat, the shuddering breaths – these were all symptoms of fear, not desire.

He had gone too far. Whatever he had said before, whatever cold or taunting remarks he may have chosen to inflict, he had never broken any physical boundaries, always respecting her sense of private space. He had violated that personal security that was probably the one thing maintaining her sanity. Was it any wonder Christine had reacted the way she did? The locked door was an all too clear message that she didn't want him anywhere near her. This final deathblow hurt him more than anything. Even these last hours, knowing she was utterly in the power of a madman, she had slept peacefully in the swan bed, not even going to her bedroom to retire. Whether consciously or not, she had trusted him not to touch her.

And he had broken that precious bond; one of the only things that had given him cause for hope.

God, why had he been so _stupid?_

He could feel it all: her confusion, her anger, her pain. He knew because he was responsible for it. She didn't know whether to love him or hate him. He was her angel and her tormenter. Her joy, her sorrow, her secret passions. Her beautiful hope and her cold despair. Everything she was came from him. He had made her. She was bound to him and _he could never let her go_.

It wasn't a matter of choice. It went beyond reason, or impulse, or anything he could place a name to. There were just some forces that were impossible to escape.

Erik knew there was something broken inside him. He had discovered life too early: the greed, the selfishness, the corruption. He saw the very worst of existence, as he expected to see it. His search for beauty was tainted by his experiences. People were exposed for what they were. As a detached bystander who could observe humanity without ever fully feeling as one of them, Erik could witness the basest of human nature. They turned on him with vicious names. Outcast. Monster. And for all their self-serving actions, he saw the fiendish pleasure people took in being able to unite against one common enemy. If they could show such inherent cruelty, what hope was there for him? It made his actions not only justifiable, but inevitable.

Then into this world of disillusionment and darkness came Christine. There was a clearness and purity to her that he had not known existed. She remained uncorrupted in spite of being in a business where extortion, criticism and self-promotion were prerequisites to succeed. Where his illusions had long died, she was trusting and generous and sincere; qualities he had striven to believe in but never found. A part of it was projection, yes. But it was more than that. He could never have loved her had her virtue remained untested. If her life had had no regrets or pain, her deep-rooted morality would have meant nothing, as it would have faced no challenges or setbacks. It would have been a complacent compassion, and worthless. But she had endured suffering, and still maintained something of a child's vision of the world. To shatter that illusion by revealing himself as an impostor was perhaps the cruellest thing he had done to her.

Perhaps that was what drove her to Raoul. Being betrayed led Christine's wavering idealism to attach itself to someone who _was _genuine, who _would _rescue her. She could not have chosen anyone better than the Vicomte. There was something unspoilt in both of them. He restored her belief in a happily ever after.

And in doing so, denied all Erik's hopes.

Well no longer.

She was here, and she was his. He moved slowly towards Christine's room. There was a dull roaring in his ears. His feet guided him with no clear purpose, other than a instinctive need to see her. He didn't know what he was going to do. Whether to talk to her as the girl who had once placed her trust in him, or to arouse the passions of the woman who had been lying dormant for so long. All he knew was that life was too short. Too short to cling to bitterness of the past or to hold back due to fear.

He just didn't want to be alone anymore.

He wanted to wash it all away. His pains, sorrows, sins, his wrongs. To begin somewhere new.

He hesitated a moment, then knocked tentatively on her door.

**(A/N: Oh dear. It's one step forward, two steps back with these two, isn't it? But if you're enjoying the drama, or screaming with frustration and wanting to hurl things through your monitor (or at the author), please leave a review! It's much appreciated.)**


	10. A New Man

**The Mask and Mirror**

(A/N: Review.)

Chapter 10

_They were at Perros. He was pulling Christine along by the hand towards the wind tossed sea. She wore blue ribbons in her hair. She was half laughing, half protesting, clinging to his hand with a small, tight, childish grip. "I don't want to get my new shoes wet," she said, with an adorable pout. "Mama Valerius will be furious!" Raoul laughed, jumping headlong into the water and bit back a gasp at the cold sensation that penetrated his bones. He grinned back at her, alight with youthful eagerness, and the young-girl Christine kicked off her shoes impulsively before joining him with a squeal of delighted laughter._

_The dream changed. He was watching Christine – now a grown woman – being pulled along by a stranger; but she wasn't laughing anymore, she was crying. It was dark; the concave stone walls were illuminated only by an eerie greenish hue. He could hear the drip and echo of water, and looked down. It was swirling beneath his feet, disturbed by the motions of the figures up ahead. Christine's pleas and exclamations became fainter and fainter, until they were reduced to mere echoes. Wild panic seized him. He darted forward in a desperate attempt to follow, but they were already too far away and had now vanished from his sight – _

"Raoul. _Raoul._"

The Vicomte was abruptly jolted into wakefulness, and found himself staring into a pair of bright brown eyes. "Christine?" he muttered vaguely.

"No – it's Meg. You fell asleep."

He pulled himself into an upright position, rubbing a hand across his eyes. The pounding in his head seemed to have subsided for the moment. That was something, at least. "What time is it?" he asked, as Meg's small, intent face swam into focus.

"A little past two. You've only been asleep an hour."

"What news?" he said at once.

She looked tense. "The police have arrived. Maman is talking to them now. Monsieur –"

"Raoul," he said impatiently.

"Raoul," she repeated tentatively, as though testing the shape of the word on her tongue. "I fear it isn't good news."

He leapt to his feet at once and made with steady deliberation for the entrance hall. Something was turning in his stomach over and over, nervousness fluttering at the edges of his consciousness. His footsteps seemed startlingly loud in the preternatural quiet that had descended over the house. A thudding, staccato rhythm that echoed the faint yet persistent drumbeat in his head. It was a little like a dream, as though he was a detached bystander watching the scene from above; himself walking slow and erect down the dim hallway, and as it grew darker and narrower, he seemed to be moving further away from reality…

Meg followed like a quiet shadow and was just in time to see her mother – in an alarmingly bent posture in contrast to her normally upright figure – turning from the closed door.

"_Maman_," she said anxiously, moving swiftly forward. She caught hold of Madame Giry's hands, looking into her face with deep concern. The older woman's expression was strained and anxious. She mastered herself with an effort that was painful to watch, before turning to Raoul with forced outward composure.

"The police have just left," she said. "There has been a… development."

"You should have let me speak to them," he said reprovingly.

"I didn't wish to disturb you. You needed rest."

Her voice was cool and matter-of-fact, yet it was as though a spark had flared inside his brain, throwing his immediate surroundings into sudden, brilliant illumination. He leaned forward, staring hard at the older woman. Beneath the thin veneer of apparent calm, her taut skin was of a chalky whiteness; it was as though he could see beyond flesh, right down to every muscle, every bone stretched thin to breaking point. There was a welling hysteria threatening to spill through the forced evenness of her voice and her stormy grey eyes were rent with a wild emotion that burned with horrible intensity, Raoul wanted to look away but he was paralysed –

"You're stalling," he whispered in slow realisation. "What is it? What's wrong? Tell me!"

Time trickled past in deliberate seconds of agonised silence; he could almost feel it slipping away like sand in an hourglass. It was like one of their childhood games; before the sand reached the bottom of the glass he must find out where Christine was, otherwise…

"You are right, monsieur," Madame Giry said at last, shaking her head from side to side in a movement that disturbingly reminded him of the macabre image of Red Death's mask _that held sway over all_. Pale and ghostly it seemed, in that shadowy half-light. "This is worse than we realised."

Raoul tried to speak, but his mouth was too dry.

He heard her voice as though from far away, as though it had to travel over a great chasm to reach him. "The police discovered a witness who saw someone matching Christine's description on the streets sometime before midnight. They were passing by when a brougham approached the young lady. Another witness saw what they assume to be the same vehicle some fifteen minutes later heading towards –" she took a deep breath. "It was heading towards the Paris Opera House." The resounding clarity of her low voice could have sounded out the Final Judgement. "You must know what this means."

His consciousness seemed to seep away for a moment, before rushing back, eddying like waves on a beach.

"No," he said slowly, mentally pushing away what she was implying, what he refused to believe.

"What other explanation is there?" she asked wildly.

"Something – anything," he muttered. "Not this – not now. I won't believe it. What you're suggesting is impossible –"

"Improbable, yes, but impossible? You of all people must know Erik better than that."

"Don't!" said Raoul fiercely, hearing the blind panic in his own voice. "Don't say it! He's dead. He's _dead_."

"And where is your proof of that, monsieur?" demanded Madame Giry.

His voice tried to claw its way through the ash at the back of his throat, but no sound came.

Madame Giry had begun pacing up and down, one step, then another... "He has her, monsieur, I am sure of that as I am sure of anything! Dead! Do you think he can be killed so easily? Do you think he has not learned how to evade bullets? Did you think the police had really found him? Why then was it not publicised? They wanted a scapegoat for what happened. Oh believe me, if Erik had been caught, there would have been more than rumours and speculation! You know what the papers were saying. They dismissed the Opera Ghost as something Monsieurs Andre and Firmin conjured up, trying to shift blame, or as the result of stress and overwork. Nothing so easy. He is back, and now he has taken our dear girl from us once more."

Raoul felt the hard floor beneath his feet and realised he was moving slowly backwards, to get away from the chilling certainty in her eyes that glowed like two pinpricks of light in the surrounding gloom. Their image was burned into his mind's eye – he could back away, back away until he stepped off the edge of the world but still he would see it, the cold, unshakeable truth that Christine was… He was breathing hard, as though he had been running for miles. Each breath strained against the cage of ribs, his mind was numb, if only he could _think –_

When he spoke, it was as though another calm, clinical voice had momentarily taken control of him, saying words that needed to be said while his brain was still numbed. "We will fix this. I don't know how, but we'll get her back."

It was with a hollow sense of detachment that he saw the painfully thin shoulders of the former ballet mistress relax slightly, as though she had derived some small measure of comfort from his empty words. But the lines on her face were still creased in desperation and vulnerability and looking at her; prematurely old and powerless, this strange child-woman, he saw how helpless they all were. _We are all of us victims, _he thought dully. _The man can play us as he wishes. He's evil. And he's stronger than any of us._

The knowledge caused him to double over with an inward pain.

"Where are the police now?"

Both Raoul and Madame Giry jumped at Meg's quiet voice, having both forgotten her presence. Of the three of them, she alone had taken the news in silence. Her fists were clenched and her voice was very calm, but there was a defiant expression on her face reminiscent of her mother's.

Madame Giry cleared her throat, and stood up a little straighter. "They are continuing to search the area, and also try and gather more from the witnesses they spoke to earlier."

"Should we not tell them we suspect the Opera Gho – I mean, Erik?"

"No use. I met Inspector Moreau, I can tell what sort of man he is. He would dismiss us outright. The Opera House is already under their area of search. It would achieve nothing but waste their time when it could be put to better use." Raoul spoke in a leaden voice. There was an awful blank expression on his face, but also shining moisture under his eyes. A terrible, aching weight was beginning to settle in his chest. So he did not have to see the expressions of twin horror on the faces of mother and daughter, he wandered distractedly towards the window and gazed out, looking hard, looking for – looking for what?

Escape. To run and run, to never stop running until he broke free from the voices chasing each other round and round in his head… _You must know what this means… Do you think he can be killed so easily?_

The splinters on the rough hewed wood of the windowsill bit into his palms, but still he tightened his grip, as though the tangible surface beneath his hands was the sole thing that chained him to the realm of sanity. Beyond that threshold, he couldn't step. Not yet.

There was something building up inside him like a brewing storm; something wild and ungovernable, that if allowed to break loose would rain bleak destruction on everything around him, tear the world to pieces. But around it was an icy outer shell that left the unnamed emotion within, intact and untouchable. He stared outwards, his vision narrowing down to what lay beyond the square frame.

Although still the middle of the afternoon, the sky had darkened to dull slate, heavy clouds a further blackness tainting the horizon. The window frame was frosted with ice, while the snow outside had liquefied and become dirt ridden from the carriage wheels passing over the roads. Only on the balconies opposite was it still white and gleaming, the same snow as yesterday, of a thousand years ago, when Papa Daae had first begun to cough and they had never heard the name of Erik.

"Why now?" he wondered aloud, "Of all the times he could have appeared, he chooses now, as we're about to marry. Taunting us with the prospect of happiness before snatching it away. I did feel at times… a nagging doubt beneath the surface, growing inside of me. That it seemed to perfect to last. Did she feel it too, I wonder? Maybe that's why we were talking about him. Somehow, we both knew, unconsciously. Perhaps we conjured him last night, she and I."

Madame Giry looked up at him quickly, ice grey eyes narrowed in puzzlement. "What do you mean?"

"Erik," he said flatly. "It's what we were arguing about."

She lowered her gaze. "I am sorry to hear that."

Raoul took a deep breath, the chill air settling over his lungs like a shroud.

"But not surprised."

"No," she repeated. "Not surprised."

Silence descended, and Raoul closed his eyes. He found himself waiting – waiting as though for some Divine Inspiration to descend and settle his problems for him. Every time – every time something had happened to Christine, instinct had taken over. It wasn't courage, or nobility, or any other fine emotion others might attribute it to, but pure, unthinking impulse. Not brains, but heart.

But now –!

Unnatural apathy; some invisible force that prevented him accessing the emotions that must be burning in his blood, screaming for release. He could hear his own breathing; feel the painful thump of his heart. How strange it was that his body continued to work, when all feeling had stopped.

He jumped when Madame Giry spoke.

"There may be – I don't know – but there's a possibility – I should have thought of it before…"

Like a sting, the words seemed to pierce beneath his skin, galvanising him into movement. "What?"

Her voice was her own again. Cool, crisp and factual. "I need to see if I can find it. Erik gave it to me once, a long time ago. I will be a few moments, Monsieur."

She swept from the room, her unconscious stern dignity restored with prospect of a glimmer of hope. Her skirts slithered across the wooden flooring, before the room subsided into habitual quiet. The clock striking a quarter past the hour sounded out startlingly loud. Raoul continued to stare out the window, his expression set and grim. A quiet movement from the corner of his eye caused him to turn and his eyes fell on soft flaxen silk – Meg Giry's hair; the brightest thing in the darkened room. Her face took a little longer to come into focus.

"If we are sure," she said, "that it _is _Erik –"

"Oh it is," he said. "I know that, beyond a doubt. It's just another thing he's taken from me."

He thought then of Philippe, and with that thought came the hard and sickening blow of guilt, that coiled up like some monstrous foetus inside his stomach. Months now, he had agonised over his brother's demise, torturing himself with the knowledge that he should have done _something._ Philippe should never have gone down into those labyrinths. It wasn't his fight. Yet he was the one lying dead. It would have been so easy to blame Erik, but Raoul couldn't escape the pressure of responsibility. God, if he had only acted differently, done something, _said _something that could have kept his brother away. He had replayed the night over and over in his head, changing the smallest detail, wondering if it could have made a difference.

He was still torn up with secret remorse that ate and festered, although he and Philippe had never been very close, not only due to the disparity in age, but also the fact that Raoul had found some of his brother's diversions… disreputable, to say the least. Being in possession of money did not automatically make one want to frequent the bars of Paris to engage in drinks and cards, or visit its seedy brothels. Moreover, Philippe had had some pretty strong opinions regarding Christine. He had seen her once or twice at the Opera House and saw nothing in her that would justify her becoming the wife of his brother. He and Raoul had engaged in many quarrels over the subject of the young soprano. Philippe said if he had taken a fancy to the little chit, then why not set her up as a mistress; he could still lavish the wealth and gifts he wanted on her, while not degrading the De Changy name by associating it with an opera wench.

Raoul hadn't spoken to him for a week after _that _incident.

They had met again on the night of _Don Juan _when Philippe had urged him not to do anything foolish. According to _him _it merely sounded as though Christine had been having a dalliance with this so-called 'Opera Ghost', and in fear of throwing away the prospect of a fortune which marriage to Raoul would give her, she had come up with this cock and bull story of a crazed stalker. They had parted on mutually dissatisfied and indignant terms, but Raoul knew his brother was by no means prepared to let the matter drop.

Yes, Philippe might have been arrogant and overbearing, but one thing could be said for him. He never stepped back from what he believed in. He was a man of action; when he wanted something, he didn't stop until he got it, he kept on fighting.

Would his brother have stood by and allowed his life to be dominated by a mere shadow of man?

He was dead for a reason – and that reason intended to steal his fiancée from him, was he really going to just _let _that happen?

Raoul stood up: his head buzzing as though an angry nest of hornets was closing in. The cold tendrils of fear had receded and something else – something hot and simmering – was gradually filling his body in its stead. This was what he had needed. This is what he had been reaching for since he had discovered Christine's absence and never found. To finally _feel._

"Where are you going?"

Meg's voice cut through his spiralling thoughts like a buoy in storm tossed seas.

His voice was hard. It was easier when he didn't have to look into those brown eyes that were only a few shades lighter than –

"To find Christine."

Meg's pretty face wasn't so pretty when staring at him with a blank incomprehensibility that would have been humorous under other circumstances. "But – you can't – Maman – the police –"

"Can do their job. I'm going to do mine."

"You can't just go tearing off. The police are expecting you to be here. You have a responsibility –"

The growing dam of rage that had been steadily swelling against his head burst at last. Before he realised it, he was shouting. "Responsibility! My life is nothing _but_ responsibility! I am _tired _of being the one responsible for everything – for being the one to keep a level head! I have spent the last nine months paying bills, and running an estate, making plans and arrangements – this isn't something I chose, it was forced on me, because if I don't do it, who else will? And all this on top of trying to keep Christine happy – do you even realise how exhausting that is?" He was glaring at her through a haze of blind anger that could only relieve itself in the compulsion to shout and shout and never stop – "I'm so sick of running everything, of being the one to pretend things are fine; the one everyone looks to reassurance that everything will be alright – because do you know what? Nothing is alright! Nothing will ever be alright, don't you understand that?" His voice cracked and broke. Meg was staring at him, one hand raised to her mouth. She looked appalled.

Raoul fell silent, and swallowed hard, willing the pounding of his heart to slow. "Meg –" he began to say, seized by a sudden guilt, the satisfaction he had felt only moments ago had wiped itself away instantly. Further words failed him. He sank apathetically into a chair, feeling ill and spent.

"I know," she said quietly. "I understand. It's horrible – this whole situation is horrible. But we need to be here. There's nothing else we can do."

He gave a hollow laugh. "Nothing!" he echoed, with a terrible sort of mockery. "I own an estate, more money than I know what to do with, God, I could _buy_ those constables if I wanted! Yet what does it matter? What does any of it matter if I can't be of any _use_." He subsided into silence and rested his chin heavily on a clenched hand, booted feet tapping the floorboards in a rapid, frenetic rhythm.

Meg cast him a sidelong look. Something about him had changed, and it unsettled her. She tried to speak with as much composure as she could muster under the circumstances. "Perhaps it's best if you stayed here, maybe just lay down…"

"Don't –!" Raoul said sharply. He drew a deep shuddering breath, and continued in a forcibly quieter tone. "Don't treat me like some victim or child in this. I'm not the one in trouble here." He got to his feet, his entire body trembling with feverish energy. "I can't be here. I _shouldn't_ be here. I need to be doing something." He ran his hands nervously down the lapels of his coat, casting sleep-deprived eyes up and down the room. He took a couple of steps towards the door, Meg's eyes widened. In an instant, she had moved in front of him, blocking his access.

"Perhaps it would be wiser to leave it to the police."

He whirled around to face her. "I'm not going to stand by and let this happen." He buried his head in his hands, talking agitatedly, "I had to spend months watching Christine be utterly terrorised by some unseen monster, stood by while she was kidnapped; my own brother _drowned_ as I had to watch her throw her life away while there was a _noose around my neck_, so I am _not_ going to be beaten down by some – some masked conjurer!"

He brought a fist down violently against the doorframe, not even registering the dull throb of pain that pulsed through his knuckles. He glared at her, struggling to suppress the anger shuddering through his body.

"I won't lose her as well," he said hoarsely. "I won't. He's come between us long enough. I'm done playing by his rules. I'm going out there to bring my fiancée back, whether anyone here _approves_ or not."

"What happened to waiting and letting the police do their job?"

He laughed humourlessly. "Well, unsurprisingly, having my fiancée in the hands of a known murderous psychopath is liable to change one's opinion somewhat. And let's just say that vile swine Moreau is not exactly a man who inspires confidence. So, if you don't mind…"

Silence. Unease trickled through her veins like ice water.

"And if you don't move," he continued quietly. "I'll force you."

Meg swallowed, hard. Gone was the charming, amiable aristocrat who had called round their house with a smile and light-hearted conversation. This man who stared at her, wild eyed and formidable, was a complete stranger. His ease of bearing was now fiercely concentrated, he was almost _charged_ with determination, and something else… Never had he seemed so unknown to her.

And never had he seemed more thrilling.

She halted the unexpected thought in its tracks, unconsciously backing up.

When he took a step forward, she moved without question.

Raoul went out into the street with a grim expression on his face and a pistol in his hand.


	11. The Scented Room

**The Mask and Mirror**

_The world was on fire  
No one could save me but you.  
Strange what desire will make foolish people do  
I never dreamed that I'd meet somebody like you  
And I never dreamed that I'd lose somebody like you_

_No, I don't want to fall in love  
This love is only gonna break your heart  
No, I don't want to fall in love  
This love is only gonna break your heart  
With you_

(Chris Isaak, Wicked Game)

Chapter 11

At first Erik thought she wasn't going to answer. Not that he could blame her. Several seconds passed – passed with agonising slowness – before the door opened a fraction, and he found himself facing a mane of unruly curls and wild dark eyes.

"Christine –" he whispered.

She stared through the crack in the door, feeling her stomach churning at the sight of molten eyes, the face twisted with dangerous yearning and forcible restraint. His predatory hands were pressed against the doorframe; his chest was rising and falling beneath the pearly shirt – she thought only Erik could embody that unique combination of the opulent and primal…

Christine swallowed hard and tried to keep her voice steady. "What do you want?"

"I need to talk to you," he said.

She forcibly resisted an urge – either to slam the door shut or open it wider, she wasn't sure. "Why?"

She was certain he hadn't moved; yet he seemed to be _closer. _The scent of leather and incense had intensified, her head spun slightly. Her body tingled – she wasn't feeling this, she _wasn't –_

There was an edge of subtle amusement beneath his seemingly bland voice. "Are you going to let me in?"

"Will I regret it if do?" she fired back at once.

Erik frowned slightly and leaned over her. His patience was wearing very thin. "You do realise of course that if I really wanted to come in, there is nothing you could do to stop me." He smiled with frightening intensity. "However, I thought for the sake of politeness, I should ask first."

_How thoughtful of you, _Christine wryly noted. She glared at him a moment, then, lacking the energy for another argument, stepped to one side and allowed him to enter the room. He did so, watching her with a gleam of interest in his eyes. She deliberately looked away and sat rigidly on the bed. She was relieved that he remained standing.

Erik stood with his back to her, idly trailing his fingers along the polished mahogany surface of the desk. It was adorned with decorative ornaments, an embroidered doily, and several bottles of perfume that had yet to be uncorked. Christine had idly wondered what exotic scents they might unveil, coming from whatever corner of the globe Erik had roamed. They stood full of mystery and promise in the dim lamplight.

Erik turned away and dropped into a chair, crossing his long legs in an effort to master his growing tension. Christine twisted her hands together, waiting. She couldn't even summon the will to ask what he wanted. She felt drained and slightly sickened, her stomach hollow and empty, turning over and over with a nauseating rhythm. How long was it since she had eaten? How long since she had slept? She felt so tired – mortally tired. Right now, she wanted nothing more than to lie back on the silken sheets and close her eyes; just for one blissful moment not to think, or worry, but just to inhale the subtle perfumed scent, and feel the comforting warmth of –

Her head shot upright before the unexpected thought could reach its conclusion. She clenched her fists tightly. "I think you should leave. Now."

A spasm passed across his face. He should have expected this. After being so forceful with her, he reflected that coming to bedroom was probably precisely the wrong thing to do. Did she fear that he would lose control again?

_Would _he lose control again?

He wanted to say no, but horribly feared the opposite.

A cold shudder passed through his very flesh, rooting him to the chair. To fix his eyes on something that wasn't Christine, he looked around the generously sized room.

The lavish and antiquated décor combined with the subtle fragrance of incense created a sensual ambience that was hardly helping his internal struggle. He had furnished this room according to what he thought would appeal to Christine, with some embellishments of his own. Consequently, it was adorned to his (admittedly) expensive taste. One of the walls had been covered in heavy draperies despite the fact there were no windows, giving the impression the room was shrouded in perpetual evening. The low sconces and lamps provided the sole light; casting dusky hues on the roses he made a point of renewing as frequently as possible. Christine herself, dressed in virginal white, her skirts spread around her as she reclined on the bed, could almost have been a maiden waiting for her suitor with mingled anticipation and desire.

A desire that was not for him.

He closed his eyes, breathing hard. The rich, enticing scent of the room invaded his senses. It had been a long time since he'd written any original music, but he could imagine what he'd compose to this. Something dark and seductive, the lingering strains of violins entwining in the disturbingly alluring air. A girl, a lover, a secret passion –

Erik ignored the tremors that sought to shake his body apart and spread his hands over his knees, trying to hold them steady.

"I need your help," he said finally.

Silence.

Christine looked across at his bowed head – and caught an alarming glimpse of deformed flesh, barely hidden by the hair that had long grown past his ears. She felt that instinctive recoiling low in her stomach that everyone feels upon seeing disfigurements, but far stronger was the unexpected surge of pity which accompanied it. Even after his recent actions had almost driven all compassion from her heart – no, she could not lie.

She still cared.

And that was why she needed to be gone.

"I don't think I can," she said haltingly.

His hands clenched the arms of the chair, the knuckles white boned.

"I see," he said icily.

Christine wrapped her arms around herself in a poor attempt to shield her body from the terrible coldness that seemed to emanate from his dangerously immobile form. She wanted to leave, but the ability to get up and walk the few paces to the door seemed a distant dream. And like a dream, scenes were forced upon her over which she had no control and had no choice but to partake in. Did he derive a sense of sadistic pleasure from this?

It was too much. His possessiveness, his cruelty, his blind, single-minded determination that she would succumb, because he was Erik and he always got what he wanted.

"So is that it?" he finally snapped, his brows contracted in a tight line. "You won't even hear what I have to say?"

"How can I?" she responded emotionlessly. "Every time I open up to you, you draw away. You say you want my affection and understanding, yet whenever I offer it, all I receive in return is icy words and scorn."

The darkness in the room seemed to gather around the man before her, settling over his heavy shoulders like a cloak of foreboding. There was something feline about him, even when he was sitting so still. Then his gaze met hers – and a lascivious expression had crept into his eyes that caused her flesh to prickle. His voice was a soft caress against her ears.

"What would you prefer from me, Christine?"

She clenched her jaw. He wasn't going to distract her like this. "I want to see _you_, Erik. Not these walls or barriers. I can't…" she sighed, looking up at him through the mane of heavy curls that had fallen over her face. "You don't understand what these last months have been like. I am exhausted by everyone putting on a front; of the superficiality – people doing and saying things that are insincere. Please, just let us be open with each other. No more hiding."

Erik took an unsteady breath.

In that small entreating speech, Christine had unconsciously exposed to him what he felt was her greatest quality. Since he had first set eyes on her, he saw that her transparent and sincere nature set her apart from the other girls in the Opera dorms, who were characterised by petty rivalries and jealousies, and always seeking to promote themselves in their small world. Christine had never descended to such levels simply because to do so would be utterly alien to her truthful and gentle nature. Was it any wonder she had such distaste for the shallow world that awaited her?

She was watching him intently, trying to gauge a reaction from his deliberately averted face. Could there ever be anything between them that didn't end in bitterness? Instead of continuing the trend of resentment and hurt that their encounters invariably resulted in, she met his defensive stance with her clear, candid gaze. "When I said I was sorry earlier, I meant I'm sorry for hurting you."

Erik sighed, reluctantly feeling some of the frustration draining from his body. It wasn't really Christine he was angry at. It was himself. His weakness, his indecision, his _damned_ insecurity. "Just being around you hurts me, Christine. I'm quite used to it. Don't think I blame you –" he continued hastily as she opened her mouth to speak – "I don't. I'm quite aware this is my own personal hell I have to carry with me."

He was shocked when bewilderment and hurt betrayed itself in a flash across her features. "Is that what loving me is to you? Hell?"

"I didn't mean –"

"Yes. You did. I understand. I – I suppose I haven't exactly made things easy for you. I have _tried_, Erik. But it's hard." Her voice had sunk to a whisper. "So hard."

She started when he rose to his feet. In several easy steps, he had covered the distance between them. Unconsciously, she stood up also, wishing to lessen the disparity in height. She had always been a tall girl compared to the other dancers at the ballet corps but Erik still somehow managed to tower over her.

It was only when she became conscious of the proximity they were in, did Christine realise she should instead have tried to put some distance between them. Now she was able to clearly see the texture of his shirt, the dusky light illuminating the opalescent material, the contrast it drew to the golden hue of his skin above the collar. She needed only to reach out a few inches and she would be touching him –

"Christine…"

Two points of light gleamed in his dark eyes. She could almost feel the rapid rise and fall of his chest against hers.

"Yes?" she breathed, hearing her own voice sound unsteady in her ears.

He was close to her – too close. She could hear his breathing, almost imagine she felt it against her mouth; for why should the air be so warm and heavy when his house was usually so cold?

"I have a request for you."

Her shoulders immediately stiffened as though pulled taut by a puppeteer's string. The same invisible, controlling force parted her lips, prompting her to ask, a little fearfully:

"And if I refuse?"

He looked almost satisfied she had asked this, as though she was behaving exactly as he anticipated. A slow smile coursed over his features. His voice was so soft she almost imagined it brushed against her skin like a current of air. She shivered.

"That's really the test then, isn't it? To see just how much you _want _to help me."

Christine couldn't move. Again, she heard herself speak as though with unnatural slowness. "What is it you're asking?"

His posture, which had formally been languorous – almost dismissive – was now tense and poised, trembling as though he had reached the threshold of his sanity. Christine sensed his self-control was about to snap, even if she hadn't been close enough to feel the trammels of emotion that tore through his large frame. Her chest pounded. She looked up into his face – and when she saw his expression, almost wished she hadn't.

Erik could hear the blood beating in his ears. Why was this so difficult? He had come here to speak, but now his tongue seemed dry and heavy in his mouth, he, who had always used his voice to work his will on others. Coming to see her had seemed an inevitable thing such a short time ago; something governed and decided by a force stronger than himself. But seeing her now; so altered, so drained, so _broken… _could he go through with this?

He swallowed hard. What other choice did he have?

"I'm asking for so little. Just to be in your life, to see you, speak to you. I know –" he clenched his jaw and forced the words out – "I know you do not – _cannot_ – love me. Just do not leave me again." He closed his eyes, resisting the urge to add, "Please."

Erik leaned away from her slightly, not wishing to appear too intimidating. He had always been governed by pride, even from his earliest years; never letting his mother see him cry or show any signs of emotion when she hit him or shut him away in that cold attic room so she didn't have to look at him. It was pride that had allowed him to endure those hours of isolation where he would sit either absorbed in music or indulge himself with imagining how one day, he would make the world pay. He mentally called upon that grim resolve now. Christine would never know how close he was to falling on his knees. She must never know. Perhaps he had already said too much. Was he achieving anything other than supplying her with more ammunition to use against him? What did he hope to gain by stripping his soul before her eyes, except for more ridicule and grief?

But he needed her here. He needed her to convince him he was still alive.

He had come too far to back out now.

If she laughed now, he would kill her. First her, and then himself.

But Christine wasn't laughing. She was staring at the floor, hands running down the skirts of her dress in a fluttering, nervous rhythm. He resisted the impulse to take hold of them.

"You wouldn't let me go," she said half wonderingly. "After _Don Juan, _when you knew how I really felt towards you, you took me away. I even left you for another life and it wasn't enough. You found me again. I've tried to escape, and still you won't leave me alone."

"No." He set his jaw. "And I never will. But this is different. I'm giving you the chance to come to me instead."

She seemed to take a moment to collect herself before saying, in tones of deliberate calm: "Even if I didn't love Raoul, leaving him would rob him of his happiness, his reputation in the eyes of the world, a fiancée he loves and for whom he has defied convention, and all this should come about from my own wilful actions. Do you think I could do that?"

Raoul. Always Raoul. For a moment, Erik was filled with such blinding hatred that it almost choked him. He shoved his hands deep in his pockets, so she wouldn't see his fists clenching and unclenching convulsively. He half wished the damned boy here just so he could get his hands around his neck. What in God's name could Christine possibly see in that whining decorative milksop? His mind went back to the day he had given up Christine for good. He remembered the Vicomte; wet and bedraggled, tied helplessly to the portcullis with tears streaming down dirt-blackened cheeks, unable to do a thing for the woman he claimed to love. Erik sneered inwardly. Raoul hadn't cut such a dashing figure then, had he? If only Christine could see that. But still there, still unshakably present was that solid, inflexible resolve that no threatening, coaxing or begging could ever hope to shift.

Christine felt every muscle in her body knotted with tension as his eyes became hooded, fire flickering beneath the dark irises. He had moved forward again, and she saw the gloved hands were balled into fists at his sides.

"So," he finally said coldly. "You profess you wish to help me, but not enough it seems." He spread his hands wide in a mocking gesture. "When you finally decide what you do actually want, let me know," he said, voice heavy with sarcasm. "I might even be around to see it."

Heavy silence stretched between them. Unable to bear the accusation that pierced her like a ray of lightning, Christine turned away. It was somehow easier to look away.

"I'm just trying to tell you how I feel. I won't lie to you, Erik."

"You would," said Erik tightly. "For _him._"

She suppressed a shudder. "You don't understand. I love Raoul –"

"Do you?" he said softly. "I wonder."

"And what is that supposed to mean?"

Erik looked over her a long moment, his gaze considering. When he spoke, his voice was low and contemplative. "Do you know what real love is, Christine?"

"More so than –" she started to reply furiously, but broke off at the last moment, not wishing to start another argument.

Erik gave a mirthless laugh. "More so than me, you were going to say? Why, because I want you and am not afraid to admit it or to do anything in my power to possess you? Does that make my feelings for you not as _pure, _not as _holy_?" His gaze had become lambent, intense and darkly serious. She shivered at the way he was looking at her, as though she was something to be savoured. "Love isn't sacred, Christine. It isn't some high and selfless emotion we should all aspire to. Love is self centred and greedy. It's about personal want and desire and lust, and is careless of anyone else. It causes envy and betrayal and secrecy. What is to be admired about that?"

Christine turned away from him slightly, her face screwed in a fiercely determined expression, as though it were costing her every effort not to cry. It took a moment for her to speak. "You're wrong," she said quietly.

Erik stared wearily around the darkened room. He could have used the wreckage outside as a testament to his argument, but held himself back. Instead he said, "You think I'm being too cynical, don't you? I sometimes forget your idealism. Because that's where this all started, didn't it? I shattered your illusions. I don't intend to do that ever again, because if I did, you'd end up like me – and you'd hate me for it."

A pinnacle of silence trembled between them for an instant. She watched his profile, hunched, tense, cast in shadow. A stranger seemed to speak using her voice.

"I told you I don't hate you, Erik. I don't think I could – even if I wanted to."

"Oh, you could," he said seriously. "You could hate me quite easily, that's the really frightening part. Someone who loves as loyally and deeply as you must be able to feel hatred. It's the same passion and intensity, only turned in a different direction. Hate isn't the opposite of love; it's the counterbalance."

She inhaled with all of her body, as though trying to dislodge the weight that had settled itself over her shoulders sometime in the last twenty-four hours.

"What do you want from me, Erik?"

There was a terrible hunger in his eyes. She was unable to look away. "What do I want? I want the unthinkable. I want you to not leave me. For you to be at my side wherever I go. I want to show you things you've never even dreamed of." A deep breath. "I want you with me, Christine."

Christine found herself moving unsteadily backwards until she was sat on the bed once more. The sheets rustled softly beneath her, sliding against her skin like cool rippling waves. Her mind had become a vortex of swirling thoughts and sensations.

Love, Christine reflected as she stared at Erik's tense form, despite popular belief, was not the strongest of emotions. There were far more powerful forces at work among mankind. Guilt, that could never be truly eradicated, obligation that bound you to deeds thought long done and brought no rest until the debt was paid, and compassion, that could mend hearts and turn hate to love in a matter of moments.

She found herself distantly longing for Raoul's company once more. With her fiancée, everything seemed so clear and simple. Not like this. Nothing like this. Raoul was all that she had sought and expected from him; all that was familiar and warm and comforting in her life. To be in Erik's presence was bewildering and intense, and so very difficult. Each encounter was a potential for more conflict, unveiled feelings or experiencing old emotions she had no wish to revisit. She was never sure of where – or _who_ – she was. In this existence that loomed before her, there was a frightening disregard for limits.

She wanted to tell Erik that what he was asking from her was impossible, but she couldn't. She didn't have that right. It was her fault he was in this pitiable state. She may not have done anything intentionally, but it didn't make her any less responsible.

Her heart seemed to have frozen in her chest with cold realisation. It slowed the blood in her veins to a torpid surge that was something like calm despair. She had felt this before, but it took a while for her to remember when and where. That first night at the Giry's. The ice, the grief, the hopelessness. Perhaps a knowledge, a presentiment had come to her then. Now it was impossible to ignore. She could never be truly free with this obligation shadowing her existence.

Was she strong enough for this? Was she really _considering _this?

Erik's head was bowed slightly, he stood with deliberated stillness, and she couldn't understand it, and hated herself in not understanding. She had never felt more removed from this strange, bitter, intense man as she did at that moment. His eyes were on her; she could feel it without looking up, those fierce, furious eyes that so effectively hid the loneliness lurking beneath the cold indifference and flaying sarcasm. Christine knew that if she truly wished to, she could try and ease that sense of emptiness he seemed to think was his fate. But was the price too high? Was it worth the pain that trying to reach him would entail?

Not for others, perhaps.

She knew Erik's flaws far outweighed his virtues. He was terrifyingly unstable, insecure, rash and impulsive, and volatile. Too often, he resorted to violence, using force to possess what he wanted. This, coupled with his obsessive nature, had made him a formidable adversary and an even more deadly suitor. He may be already too far gone for her to save him.

She didn't love him.

So what was she so afraid of?

She had been cowardly. She needed to confront this, not run from it. If she had left when that foolish impulse had taken her, it would have left things between them unresolved, Erik damaged beyond all hope of being saved, and her to unceasing remorse. It was so easy to run away from it. Every instinct was even now telling her to do so, to get away before she was drawn in any deeper. Before this place could do things to her. Already she could feel it, in this room with its sensory _(seductive)_ influence that made her so acutely aware of the workings in her body. To stay with him now, even be near him, was opening a door she had no wish to step through, because it was a way that led to pain and vulnerability, and perhaps something else. But he needed her for a time. More even than Raoul. More than anyone she knew. She was the only one who could help this man.

The right thing to do wasn't always the easy one.

So Christine looked steadily into his eyes.

"I promise," she said.


	12. Demon and angel

**The Mask and Mirror**

Chapter 12

"I promise," said Christine.

A silence followed her words; probably the longest silence she had ever experienced, not the silence of emptiness or passivity, but a silence that was alive with consciousness, charged, poised with tension. It seemed to stretch into infinity in which there was nothing but herself and the acute physical workings of her body.

The ground beneath her seemed to completely have given way and a chasm had opened at her feet, opened its way right into the earth. And she stood alone on the brink of it. Black and yawning emptiness overcame her in an enveloping wave. And the sensation of falling –

Christine looked up.

"Erik," she said.

It was as though every inch of him had been struck by lightning; blinded, charred and incinerated. There was a turbulent heat coursing through his blood and his mind a dark haze. And in the midst of the paralysis of shock, his entire body tautened as a sudden fear – terrible and resounding – pierced him like cold steel. The horror of it was a fierce globe of pain in his chest. He swayed without knowing it. Had it happened at last? Had he finally gone mad with longing and loneliness and confinement? He shook at this hardly less than the alternative. That Christine had just promised to let him into her life and to stay with him.

Erik leaned back heavily against the dressing table without knowing it, as an unfamiliar feeling of dizziness came over him. Even the feel of the smooth wood under his hands was fading, becoming as insubstantial as the dusky half-light surrounding them. Christine's face blurred a moment before his eyes then slowly cleared. It was the same as before, solemn, pale as marble in the flaring lamplight, framed with a mass of dark curls that were lost in the shadows that danced across her skin. She had half raised a hand to her bloodless lips, as though shocked by what she had just said. Erik realised he was breathing very heavily. The awareness caused him to push away from the vanity and stand upright. His shirt was stuck to his back with sweat. His frame galvanised with renewed sensation. Suddenly, with lightening speed, he had moved forwards and was leaning over her, looking at her hard.

"Don't," he said sharply.

She stared at him, bewildered. "What are you saying? Erik, I – I thought this was what you wanted to hear. I promised –"

"Don't. Don't promise me anything – not unless you plan on keeping it."

She lifted her head, firm, defiant. "I wouldn't give you my word if I wasn't serious."

He frowned then, and Christine could almost hear him turning her words over and over in his head. Would he be convinced? Or would he once more reject her sincerity as a mere ploy? There was something infernal in that black mind of his, something that caused him to warp good intentions into mockeries, twisting the truth into lies. A cold foreboding lay icy fingers against her heart. Then, like ink rippling down glass, his eyes darkened.

"Be careful, Christine," he said warningly. "If you are merely toying with me –"

She had thought herself emotionally shattered, but still a stirring of anger rose inside her. "_Toying_ with you –?"

"Then why?" he demanded. "Why this abrupt change? What has happened to shock you into this sudden acceptance?"

In answer, Christine slowly reached into the folds of her dress and pulled out a couple of sheets of paper. She held them out, and wordlessly, Erik took them. He looked over his own letters, his expression unreadable.

"I see," he said quietly. He had not raised his voice in anger, but this deadly softness was somehow worse.

"Please – I did not wish to pry. They sort of… fell into my hands."

He looked at her a long moment. Strange how she was frozen like ice, yet his eyes could be fire. For an instant, some unnamed emotion flickered across his face and he seemed on the verge of saying something, but then the impulse flared and died as quickly as it had come. She knew this and was curious at her knowing, wondering how it was that she was always so in tune to his slightest graduations of thought and feeling for all his smouldering reserve. When he spoke, she knew it wasn't what he had been intending to say at all.

"So you read this, and – what? Didn't like what you saw?"

She took a step closer to him _(when had she stood up?)_, fists clenched. "You have_ no _idea what you're saying."

"Perhaps you should explain it to me, then." He sounded wearied.

She heard her voice come as though from very far away.

"I tried to leave because I felt ashamed."

"I'm sorry?" said Erik, almost politely.

Christine could hardly believe the words had left her – she had not known them to be true until the moment she uttered them. It opened a whole new wave of implications she wanted to push away, that she couldn't face now, not when she was tired, so tired…

"You felt ashamed," repeated Erik. His voice was completely devoid of expression.

Her hands seemed not to know what to do with themselves; one moment twisting themselves in the gauzy fabric of her skirts in a recently acquired nervous gesture, the next twining round and round a coil of hair, giving the faintly bizarre impression she was endowing her fingers with dark rings. He frowned, his mouth becoming a thin line.

"May I ask exactly what it was you were ashamed of?"

"I think," she said slowly. "That it was myself. For misjudging you."

He didn't say anything.

She shivered then, aware of a sudden chill sweeping through her body. She folded her arms across her chest, realising the thin material of her gown was most likely the cause of it, although minutes ago, the room had seemed so warm. She had wished away that enticing perfume-scented atmosphere that caressed the skin like a lover's touch, but now she found herself wanting it back.

"I was dismissive of your feelings before. Then I read your letters, what you had said. I wasn't ready to confront it."

"And now you are?"

The scent of leather was suddenly very close, and beneath, the faint hint of incense, and again that _sharpness _that was like frost…

It suddenly struck her as very important that she step out of the circle of his grasp, not that he would attempt to touch her, but if he did… Pushing aside that alarming _(thrilling) _thought, she retreated a few steps until she felt the back of her legs collide with the bed.

Erik's eyes flared at the deliberate withdrawal. Something was simmering beneath his skin – not quite anger, but not entirely removed from it either. Was it frustration? The papers had crumpled in his hand in one vicious movement and he was aware of a dry feeling of bitterness choking his throat. Is this what he would have to expect from now on? The apprehension in her eyes? Her shying away from his every movement? He would almost rather her leave right now than have her with him and reduced a shadow of her former self. He spoke through clenched teeth. "I'm not allowing any half measures. If you do this, it has to be entirely. I won't accept anything else."

Christine saw his reaction to her drawing away. It was there, in his face that was twisted in cruelty – she peered closer – or was it _hurt_? His stance was defensive, subliminally rejecting any paltry attempt at warmth, even had she wished to offer it. But he was too ungovernable, his passion too fierce. Yet still she was not immune to a stab of pity. He had never had anyone to care for him. And even though she had suffered loss, Christine had never lacked affection in her life, whether it were from the warm paternal love of her father, the stern yet fiercely loyal devotion of Madame Giry or the sweet sisterly bond she shared with Meg, and of course, her constant, unfailing love for Raoul.

But her feelings for Erik… no, they couldn't be termed affection_. _Affection was a simple thing, and Erik didn't – or couldn't – comprehend simplicity. He hated and loved with his entire being; if he fell, he fell completely; it was madness and passion and death, it was the world splintering into a thousand fragments before his eyes. With such intensity, how could she hope to respond with something so prosaic as _affection_? Pity wasn't right, either. Nor was remorse, or even fear. Such words couldn't convey the shattering complexity that bound her to this familiar stranger. It was the painful pleasure of biting down on a broken tooth. It was the terrifying exhilaration of an electric storm or the fatal beauty of a blazing inferno.

She would stay with him just long enough until this – whatever it was between them – had reached some sense of closure. Only then could she move on with Raoul, guilt free, and having no obligations to her past life.

"I am here – for as long as it takes."

A cold _something _gleamed in his eyes, something rather like satisfaction. "You're certain, Christine?"

There was a pause in which she could hear the beating of her own heart.

Then –

"Yes," she said.

Without fully knowing why, whether it was to offer comfort, confirmation or for some other reason, Christine reached out in a half subconscious gesture, her hand enclosing the hardened muscle of his arm that seemed very brown and solid, very _there _in a way she had long been unable to admit to herself. At times she could still hardly persuade herself he was real; he seemed an elusive spirit created by her own mind, a result of a child's loneliness and the need for a companion and guide. But now – very recently – he had become more and more substantial; the disembodied voice had corporealised into an all-too-real living and breathing man. A man of black hair, coarse burnt-gold skin and heavy eyes, black and slippery as oil. The heavy presence of his frame, the tension in the hands, the murderous ability; she could not have imagined those. And always, the realisation that beneath the mask was a misshapen, scarred and twisted profile – a seeming outer prelude to what lay within the dangerously calculating head.

He wouldn't have been handsome even without the deformity – for the word handsome implied something ornamental, where everything had its moderation and symmetry and broke no boundaries. And aesthetically speaking, Erik's face was too intensely mobile for propriety and too irregular for beauty: the heaviness of jaw, well built nose and largely sensual mouth contrasted jarringly with the tilted catlike eyes and slanting cheekbones. If there was anything striking about him, it was in the way people sometimes described creatures like jungle cats. It was that same magnificent-ferocious quality that Erik possessed; the savagery and precision of finely-honed danger, the terrifying disregard for limits. A person could try and tame such a creature, at the price of being potentially torn to pieces.

Is this what she had let herself in for?

Perhaps it was courting peril to say it, but her conscience wouldn't be satisfied until this one matter was made clear between them.

"But I'm not going to lie to you. If Raoul _does_ find me, I cannot stay with you."

Metallic hatred flared within Erik an instant; hatred the only way he knew it – the kind that was white hot and all-consuming. He could taste it in his mouth, feel it in the blood soldering in his veins. He could not hate in the cold, cruel way of others, which could be detached and calculating, could postpone revenge and plan schemes with a level head and clear eye. He lacked the self-control. His emotions were fire. The muscles of his arm tensed beneath her hand in an unacknowledged possessive response. "And I will be honest with you, then. If your Vicomte and I cross paths, I won't guarantee he will leave the encounter alive."

She pulled away from him at once.

"You underestimate him," she said.

Erik laughed quietly. "If you really believed that, my dear, you wouldn't have agreed to stay with me. You're afraid that if you leave now, I would be driven to destroy him." He shrugged carelessly; she felt her insides tighten with nervousness. "You're probably right."

"So you would kill him, then?" she said, and shivered.

"If it was a way of making you forget, then yes, I would kill him." His voice was calm and dispassionate. There was no doubt he was telling the truth. He would commit murder for her. Christine leaned forward, looking at him intently, but there was no quiver of emotion that betrayed a sense of inner recoiling at the prospect. He didn't look full of life anymore; his face was gaunt and pale, and yes, _ghostlike_. This room had been a boudoir of muted light and subtly preserved fragrances. Light silks and heavy velvets in rich, warm colours, the pots of onyx and ivory glowing on the vanity amid the bottles of scent and powder brushes. These remained – yet the room could have been a sepulchre for the deathly cold atmosphere that seemed to have penetrated the stone walls. She remembered with a start that in the outside world it was November, that it was probably snowing – and with a greater jolt of shock – that she was supposed to be getting married in five days.

Erik was watching her with an inscrutable look. "You seem surprised, Christine. Does the picture of me as a murderer still shock you? You know what I've done. What I am."

She spoke with a surety that surprised her. "I know what you can be."

He shook his head, and she saw in quick succession the demon and angel sides of his face seeming to merge and blend into one with the movement. The strongly-wrought features of his undamaged profile, the powerful nose and the liquid-jet eyes gave the outline and impression of arresting looks, but it was underpinned by a hideous lasting imprint of loosely hanging flesh and angry scars, twisted and raw with inflammation – such as Lucifer must have looked after being blasted by hellfire. Worse even than the physical embodiment of corruption was the unadulterated loathing and poisonous schemes she sensed working within for so long now, the intricacies turning over and over like cogs in some infernal machine.

Could she really hope to get through to him? Or had he become so hardened over time and hardship that there truly was nothing of the man left? Trying to reach him was like attempting to extract an ornament of crystalline glass from a casing of stone. Even if you found it, there was still the terrible chance that it might smash to pieces.

But she must try.

Erik's eyes seemed to hold a world of knowledge and despair. "Oh, Christine," he said softly. "You have no idea what I could be, if I put my mind to it."

His words had served as a warning to make her understand, to convey that she must not expect too much from him and to put her on her guard to protect her from him. They had not intended to incense her. His heavy black brows flew upward in surprise, as she looked up at him with angry colour suffusing her pale face.

"You can't frighten me. Not anymore. Believe me Erik, I _know_ the worst of what you've done, because you did it all to me."

"If only that were true," he muttered, half to himself.

"Why? Do you think murder and torture is the peak of your cruelty? There are far worse things to fear than death; you taught me that. The ones you killed – they got off easily. You weren't able to build up a world of lies around them, or manipulate them into becoming slaves to your will. You didn't send their bright, beautiful world crashing down around them in pieces, so completely shattered that it leaves them wondering if there can ever be anything that's real found in life ever again –"

Erik was clenching his fists so hard that blood was coursing down the lifelines of his palms, but that was merely a dull surface cut that paled in comparison to the white-hot knives that pierced his head and heart. He bit down on his lip hard to restrain the words of useless supplication that filled his mouth and throat like some noxious chemical. In the haze of pain behind his eyes, he thought in a half dream, _No. I have no right to speak. Nothing I say can atone for this. She will hold it against me forever. _Her slim and fragile figure was shaking uncontrollably. What she told him was nothing he hadn't already known, but knowing was different from understanding. She had trusted him, she had _believed _in him. And he had twisted and violated that trust, warped that precious innocence by turning an appeal for help into a means of control, turned hope into mockery.

_But I only wanted to help her, _he insisted.

_You wanted her in your power._

_To give her comfort!_

_To make her love you._

The truth of this could not be denied. It was confirmed in the painful accusation reflected in her brown eyes.

"Then _why –_" His voice cracked and broke.

"Why am I still here? Because I have to believe you can change. And I mean, really change. You cannot atone for a lifetime of sins in a day. You have to _want _it for its own sake, not just to please me."

Erik stared down at his hands; palms open upward, the drying bloodstains like copper-coloured tributaries. He looked with the indifference of a disinterested observer, only aware of the pain as a vague throbbing heat across his skin. It struck him how very vulnerable this body was, for all its deadly agility, how it was still not immune to injury. It was just as susceptible to evils as the spirit.

His voice came out rough and grating. "I've burned up, Christine. I'm nothing but empty darkness. I don't think there's any good left in me."

"No," she said, fighting off the overpowering conviction in his voice. "But I do."

He stared at her a long moment, before breaking out in harsh laughter, seeking refuge in irony. "So much faith," he remarked, with a lightness of tone that did not reach his eyes. "Well, we'll just have to wait and see, won't we?

Christine's legs felt unsteady beneath her. The last twenty-four hours seemed to have caught up with her in a rush. "Alright," she said faintly. "Enough of this. I – I need to be alone. Can you please leave me?"

He swept a bleeding hand outwards in an exaggerated flourishing movement. "Far be it from me to deny you _anything _you want Christine."

He swept from the room before she could see his face collapse with overpowering emotion.

Christine stared at the closed door for some moments, and then with a half shuffling, half scooting movement, retreated as far from it as possible, and sank slowly to the floor by her bed. Her hands shaking, she pulled the sheet off and wrapped it around herself, but her body would not stop trembling. Her huddled figure looked very small, lost amid the ripples of dark red silk. After all, she was only a girl of eighteen, and he was a man twice her age who was violent and terrifyingly unbalanced. And somehow she had, by her own volition, thrown herself at his mercy. Her mind whirled. The room was too small, the walls closing in on her. Everything seemed unreal. She felt like she was in a dream – a horrible dream.

She closed her eyes, but the image of Erik's face was seared onto her mind like a brand. Intent, alive with ruthless intelligence; a face that would never die in her memory, even if he did. A resonance stirred in her brain, a pale echo of something that might once have been laughter. Die? No, never, never! Nothing could kill him. Not whips, not knives, not fire. The Opera House had burned, but he had endured.

There was a searing heat circulating through her blood. She could never remember a feeling like this, so hot and draining, as though there were not air enough to fill her lungs. The thought of opening the door crossed her mind but she dismissed it at once in the dread of encountering Erik again. She remembered how she felt when he was near – as though her whole body were drowning in dark water. And to feel that way forever…

Christine shuddered.

She had agreed to walk through fire once more, just as surely as she had on the night of _Don Juan._ But that had been to escape him, not to become further entwined in his world. She knew what his world entailed. Had been on the threshold of stepping into it. Her eyes were closed tightly, but an image danced across her lids: an image of a dark stage ringed with torches of fire, figures in red silk slipping in and out of the shadows and a darkly compelling voice wrapping itself around her, drawing her towards him…

Furious, she blinked the memory away.

_It's not real, _she told herself sternly. That performance had been another fantasy he had erected, just like the Angel of Music had been. Only, where the spirit of an angel had come from a lonely child's need for solace, _Don Juan _had tapped into her darker, more adult desires. And Erik had known it. He knew her better than she knew herself. Was it any wonder he had been able to manipulate her so easily?

He had tricked her, entranced her, seduced her –

And she had loved every minute of it.

Her stomach turned.

She was exhausted. She was burning. She was sick with fear.

In a fevered state of mind and an earnest wish to just _forget_, she threw herself on the bed and prayed that sleep would come and take her.

But rest was not swift in coming. Christine tossed and turned, unable to shake off the stifling heat that pressed around her. The sheets brushed uncomfortably against her skin. When black oblivion finally loomed, a towering wave of imminence, she welcomed it. And as she fell, hotter and hotter, she thought of Erik. The dark eyes and fingers like brands of fire. She longed for Raoul and the cool blue of his eyes.

His name left her dry lips in a grating whisper.

She _would _return to him.

So why did it feel like she had betrayed him?


	13. Winter Woes

**(A/N: Uh... review or I won't update.)**

**The Mask and Mirror**

Chapter 13

Meg Giry was reeling. Not from Christine's kidnapping – which would have been understandable – but at the fact she had just been little short of _pushed _out of the way by a nobleman, who, for all her liking of him, she privately didn't consider to have the gumption to order _anyone_ around_. _Then again, she thought on reflection, there must be a resourceful and resolute mind behind the mild mannered exterior for him to manage an estate so smoothly as he did without any prior training. The girl tugged absently at a strand of blonde hair, her quick mind racing, incredulity turning rapidly to annoyance.

Had Meg been less assertive and confident in herself, and had Raoul been less gentle natured than he had always appeared, then his actions a few moments ago would have come as less of shock. But the fact that she, Antoinette Giry's daughter, straight-spoken and popular in everything she said and did, had been treated so bluntly – even by a nobleman – was almost unthinkable. How _dare _he dismiss her so easily? And with such coldness – such inconsiderate coldness! It wasn't shock that sent her blood humming so much as stung pride. The moment had aroused her from light-hearted and frivolous girl to the fierce young woman who had fearlessly led the expedition beneath the cellars of the Opera.

His anger had been unexpected. She had never seen him lose the carefree and even-tempered serenity in his smooth features, or thought that his unassuming voice could take on the tones of cruelty. His face had become callous and almost frightening in its lack of empathy – if she had been easily frightened. But the courageous and headstrong girl had risen to the fore, and along with it, the conviction that she was in the right. Without stopping to think, she had impulsively covered the few swift steps to the door. She didn't call her mother first. Likely it would lead to questions and explanations and waste more time. Madame Giry and her daughter were too alike; both stubborn, both had quick tempers when roused, they fought like cat and dog – and were fiercely devoted to each other. Meg may be allowed to complain about her mother, but woe betide anyone else who attempted to say a word against her.

There was no question in her mind that if Raoul continued in his intent to find Christine by blindly charging into the cellars of the Opera, he was going to get himself killed. That was even if he got so far. Reconstruction had started on the Opera House but much of the building was still unsafe. She had read the papers and knew there were problems with finding contractors. Consequently, work had been haphazard and there was ever the threat of unstable masonry. She knew that would not deter him – no more than the prospect of a crazed murderer whose very house was a chamber of horrors. Raoul may want to die trying in the attempt to save Christine, but she wasn't about to let him.

The door slammed shut behind her and Meg ran down the front steps into the cold November afternoon. She shivered violently – she had not thought to put on a coat or scarf. The chill wind whipped against her bones like knives dipped in crystalline frost. She tilted her head up, squinting against that inexplicable brightness of winter, at the cold silvery-grey sky, heavy clouds edged with piercing fringes of light. It had started to snow, the roads already becoming covered in the swiftly escalating drifts. Meg began to move at a run, staring intently through the swirling flakes, trying to distinguish among the many young men walking past whether one of them was Raoul. She was only wearing light shoes and the cold pinched into her feet. The icy air made breathing painful, as though her lungs had contracted, but it was the seeping chill of anxiety that she was most aware of, that sent cold bolts zinging through her veins. Others may have paused to appreciate the aesthetic picture of the snowfall, the houses coated as though by white sugar icing, but practical minded Meg was immune to such considerations.

Muffled figures pushed past her, and with the white mist and dark houses dominating her vision, she almost lost her bearings. A drunk lurched towards her, with matted hair and wild eyes, and she recoiled in disgust. This was no place to be unchaperoned. A church clock tower struck three o'clock and a shiver, unconnected to the cold, lanced through her body. It was later, much later, than she had realised. How much time had already been wasted? She never normally worried about anything – worrying was for people like Christine, people so locked away in their own thoughts they didn't really seem to _live _in the real world at all. But for all her natural evenness of mind, she had a warm heart, fierce in its loves and hatreds.

Even before circumstances had forced them to live as sisters, Meg had always liked Christine better than any of the other girls at the Opera. Christine wasn't as popular, or as sociable, or as fun to be around, but then neither did she descend to sniping or gossip or catty remarks. There was nothing two-faced or underhand about her nature; and Meg was mature enough to see the worth of such virtues. And Christine, who had always seemed so alone and out of place among the other actresses and ballet rats, had blossomed like a flower under Meg's warm and sincere friendship and never failed to show her gratitude, even when preoccupied with –

Raoul.

Meg had caught sight of him at last – a tall figure moving with swift purposeful strides, head lowered slightly against the cold.

"Monsieur!"

Raoul turned around and saw Meg Giry running towards him. She was looking very pretty; cheeks flushed with cold and exertion, corn-coloured hair starting to come loose around her face and glowing brown eyes all formed a warm contrast to the street shrouded in snow. Raoul stiffened and felt a wistful pang as a memory returned to him of a few weeks before when his carriage had dropped Christine off at her house and she had come running back moments later to pick up her muff that she had forgotten. He clearly recalled how he had smiled at the sight of her: wintry paleness of her skin startling against the dark hair and eyes, heavy curls lifted by the slight breeze and the white dress on her slender figure like a snowdrop.

His eyes stung – the wind was very icy. "What are you doing here?" he said harshly.

"Looking for you," Meg retorted over the wailing of the wind. She wrapped her arms around herself, trying to suppress the shivering of her body, and noted how her hands were red with cold. She clenched her fists.

Raoul seemed not to notice her discomfort, or if he did, gave no indication of it. He himself seemed unaffected by the freezing temperature; she studied the profile of his face, turned away from her slightly. The hard grey of his eyes, like shards of ice, was not purely reflected from the snowscape around them. The line of his cheekbone seemed strangely hollowed in the silvery light and the severe upward tilt of the chin cut such a forbidding line, it was almost painful to look at. Meg shivered again. It was not only the icy air that stuck a sudden chill through her.

"Go back to the house," said Raoul, and although the remark was clearly addressed to her – for who else could he have been talking to? – she had the strangest sensation that he wasn't speaking to her at all. Certainly, the distant tone conveyed no warmth of former acquaintance. She gritted her teeth. It was cold, and her patience was starting to wear thin.

"Not without you," she said firmly.

He swung round to face her fully now, a slightly irritable expression on his face. "You're not going to change my mind. I'm going to find Christine, and give Erik what's coming to him."

"Yes," she said acerbically. "No food, no sleep, you stand an excellent chance against a professional assassin. You are no good to anyone like this; you _need_ to go home." She was rubbing her hands together, trying to restore circulation to her numb fingers.

"We've had this discussion. And you're wasting my time." He had turned away and was already battling through the snow that was falling fast and thick, near obliterating him from her sight altogether. She stood a moment, alone in a white shrouded world, before sudden anger flared within her. She ran after him.

"Listen to me. You are being foolish –"

"_Foolish?_" he repeated in a low dangerous voice, his eyes glinting. Meg refused to let it daunt her.

"Yes," she snapped, "You are. And you'd realise that if you stopped to think for just one second."

"Better to be a fool and do something than just stand by and do nothing," he retorted, his tone colder than the blizzard assaulting them.

"_You are not doing nothing!_" Meg fought the urge to shake him. She didn't know why she was feeling this so intensely, but it seemed an insignificant thing in the overwhelming urge to convey the compulsion burning within her. "We are all going to get Christine back, but this isn't the way to do it! Getting yourself killed will help no one. _Let it go._"

"I can't," he said through clenched teeth. "You don't understand. You don't know how it feels –"

"Oh, _don't _I?" she said fiercely. She took a couple of steps forward, eyes flashing. She suddenly looked uncannily like her mother. "You're worried. I understand that. You're afraid. I understand that too. But if you think that crawling inside yourself and wallowing in guilt justifies you storming off on this personal crusade of yours, let me tell you something. I was at the head of the search party that tried to find Erik. I was the first one to go down into that lair. _I_ was the one who said there was nothing left, that he must be dead. If I'd not been so naïve, so _overconfident_, the police could have found him that night, and none of this would have happened! So you might want to indulge in this prima donna sulk, _Monsieur de Chagny,_ but trust me, there's blame enough to go around!"

She broke off, breathing fast, her face very flushed. Raoul was looking at her, shocked. Taking in her dainty figure, blonde hair and cherubic features, he wasn't the first man to assume that Meg Giry's personality would be the same as her appearance – meek and mild. He certainly hadn't expected to be scolded – no, _shouted _at. No one shouted at him. Ever. He was too self-assured, too authoritative and too sensible to warrant it. He thought suddenly of Christine. Christine wasn't lacking in backbone when the occasion demanded it and had his behaviour been out of line, she would have said so. The difference between them, Raoul noted with some interest, was that Christine wouldn't have shouted.

It took several moments for him to gather his stunned wits. He seemed to have been suspended in his own isolated world for the last few hours and had just been brought down to earth with a jolt. He was still looking severe but the corners of his mouth twitched slightly.

"Anything else you want to say?"

She set her chin. "I think that'll do to be going along with."

He watched her narrowly. "Why didn't you say any of this before?"

Meg shrugged. "I'm not the self indulgent type."

_Self-indulgent? Is that what you think I am? _Raoul hesitated. _Was _he being self-indulgent? Were his own fears, sense of guilt and desire for revenge clouding his judgement? He wasn't sure what was more unexpected: Meg Giry speaking to him in such a manner, or the fact that he was letting her. It was impossible to remain aloof when assaulted with such blunt assessment. "You're not going to let me intimidate you, are you?"

"No," she said simply.

He stared down at the pistol he had unconsciously tightened his grip on; the light glinted dully off its smooth surface. His gloved fingers ran over it in something like a deadly caress. The weapon sat easily in his hand – too easily. The idle days spent shooting on the estate had trained his hand to aim with a much more sinister purpose.

"Do you realise," he said in a low voice, all sense of frivolity gone,"that if you hadn't followed me and I'd found Erik, that I would have killed him? I came so close in the cemetery that night. People talk about murders all the time, but only when you're in that situation do you finally know if you can really take another life." He looked at her seriously. "I can."

"What stopped you?" she whispered. "In the cemetary?"

"Christine," he said shortly.

He glanced sidelong, saw the unease in her expression and seemed to come back into himself. Like shutters snapping down, the haunted lingering emotion in his eyes disappeared as he said quickly, indicating the conversation was closed, "I'm sorry. I shouldn't be telling you this –"

"No!" said Meg quickly. "I mean – don't stop. Not if you don't want to." She didn't tell him what she was really thinking; that it made such a change for someone to place complete trust in her, not to be treating her like a naïve little girl who needed to be protected from the world. She wasn't the paragon of idealised femininity that was preached from the pulpits: some delicate and fragile creature that needed to be treated with care, shielded and cosseted. She wasn't that girl. Christine maybe. But not her.

She leaned towards him to reinforce her words and as she did so, felt a comforting heat emanating from his body, which seemed to thaw the cold fringes of ice that were forming along her bare skin.

"Stop?" said Raoul vaguely. "I don't know where to begin."

Meg had moved in front of him, white skirts spreading around her like a silky fan. She was looking different from her usual self, very quiet, very serious. She was probably, he thought in a detached manner, just as pretty as Christine, and her spirit and vitality was far more likely to attract suitors than Christine's wistful reserve. But Meg's features were lacking in the heartbreaking vulnerability and sincerity that shone through Christine's every word and action. Her sweet and vivacious looks didn't haunt him the way Christine's transparent and otherworldly beauty did. Yet her very being here caused him a strange ethereal pain, as her qualities served as a sharp reminder of Christine's absence. Raoul frowned. Why must he insist on making comparisons?

"I'm not forcing you to tell me anything," she said quietly. "But you're deliberately isolating yourself from us. Maman may not see it – but I can. There's something more, isn't there? Something you're not saying."

He frowned. "When did you become so perceptive?"

She smiled slightly. "About the same time you became so reckless."

"It's so terrible of me…" he said hoarsely. "I can't even bring myself to think it."

"Think what?" said Meg gently.

The headache Raoul had felt earlier had begun prodding at his temples again. He could hear the howl of the wind in his ears. The snow blurred the landscape around him, taking him back to those days at the Opera, the days of dizzying splendour and nights of darkness and terror. It had been many months ago, one of his conversations with Philippe…

"_Raoul, I would give you the world if you asked for it – but this! Are you really so green? Can't you see what's happening to you? This wench has you wrapped around her little finger –"_

_Raoul's hand shot out and grabbed hold of his brother's arm; his eyes were cold and glittering with barely restrained fury._

"_Don't," he said tightly, "ever refer to Christine that way in my presence again."_

"_I'll refer to her as I wish," responded the older man harshly, "and more besides. Do you realise what you are doing by persisting in this foolish manner? The name de Chagny used to mean something; it commanded respect. I am not going to let you turn it into a laughing stock."_

"I _turn it into a laughing stock? What about you and your_ _sordid encounters with that dancer – what is her name? La Sorelli?"_

_Philippe's expression tightened, his handsome features displaying a hardness that rendered his face at once masklike: something cold and cruel. "You would do well to find such a diversion yourself, Raoul, and get this silly infatuation out of your head."_

"_This is not an infatuation," said Raoul, very quietly._

_Philippe snorted to indicate his disbelief._

_Raoul slammed his hands down on the table and noted with a vague sense of pleasure that for once, he had succeeded in shocking his brother. "I love her," he said, his voice shaking. "More than life, death – do you think I care about money or title? It's nothing compared to this. I'd give up everything I have in an instant to be with her." _

"_How poetic of you. And she feels the same way, does she?"_

"_Of course she does," he responded fiercely. _

_Philippe examined a cigar case with a semblance of idleness, before remarking coolly, "so it doesn't bother you that she's been rumoured to be spending time with a strange man, unchaperoned?"_

"_The man's a lunatic! He's _stalking_ her!"_

"_She told you that, did she?"_

_Raoul's voice rose in anger. "Are you suggesting –!"_

"_Think about it! What _was_ she, Raoul? Nothing but some obscure ballet rat. She had no prospects until you came along. So she – shall we say – _entertains_ this 'Opera Ghost', this Phantom of hers. Alls well and good until she sets her mind on a more rewarding endeavour. Then a few pretty smiles and she's ensnared one of the richest men in Paris!" He looked contemptuous. "Raoul de Chagny, the gullible nobleman."_

Meg saw Raoul's face redden and wondered if it was due to cold or some unnamed emotion. Her own teeth were chattering but she had long ceased to notice. The wind had ripped her ears to rawness, and it was a struggle to listen when he began to speak.

"This is going to sound so disloyal… even now, she's probably terrified and praying for me to come and find her, but I can't stop myself wondering…"

Raoul turned away wearily and stared into the distance. The sky had darkened since she had set out; the grey clouds had gathered more ominously, though the snow had not abated. There was still light; piercing fringes of it that dispelled the rapidly growing gloom. The day too, it seemed, was in mourning. He hurriedly banished the thought. _Mourning. _It made it sound as though Christine was –

He hurriedly turned back to Meg, and it suddenly occurred to him she had been stood there all this time in nothing but a thin dress. "You're frozen," he said, his look changing from preoccupation to one of concern. Meg glanced down. Fragments of icicles clung to her arms; she could see them glinting like shards of glass. So why did she not feel cold? She shook her head in distraction. "Don't worry about me. You were saying –"

Raoul closed his eyes.

"Is it possible to love someone and not know if you can trust them?"

Meg thought of her encounters with her – admittedly numerous – admirers at the Opera: the stifled laughter in stolen moments, the amorous glances and teasing flirtations, the flowers and chocolates sent after each performance. Then she looked at Raoul's pale figure illuminated by the wintry scene: all love and pain and eternity – and knew this was one instance where her worldly experience failed her.

She looked up, meeting his inquiring gaze with all her customary directness. "I wouldn't know," she said flatly. "I haven't loved like that – not in the way you mean."

And she didn't want to. Not if love was like this.

He sighed. "I'm sorry. I just – I can't believe I'm even saying this... Christine's gone, and a part of me is just concentrating everything on keeping myself together and not going out of my mind or breaking down completely… and there's this other part of me that feels like Christine's been gone for a long time. Like she was never here in the first place. As though she was never with me at all."

"Of course she was with you. She always will be."

"Will she? Even when we are together, she's never really _with_ me. Sometimes she gets this absent look in her eyes… and I know it's because of him."

"Yes, but it's because she _dreads _him!_ Fears_ him!"

"It doesn't matter!" Raoul responded visciously. "_He's still in her head!_ She still thinks about him!"

"And if she does? Can you blame her?"

"No," he said softly. "I don't blame her. But I'm questioning her. I can't help it. It all seems too coincidental somehow. Perhaps – although I feel like I'm betraying her by saying this – but what if she wanted to leave? What if this was what she had really wanted all along?"

He drew a sharp gasp as an elbow painfully met his ribs. He had begun to realise the hard way that Meg Giry was perhaps not the person to go to when requiring sympathy – though for grounded realism she was clearly indispensable. "What was that for?"

"You," retorted Meg. "For being so blind. Christine loves _you_, Raoul, she always has." An unexpected feeling _(aching) _smote her chest as she spoke, but she ignored it in her haste to convince him. "Do you know how often she used to talk about you at the Opera, before she even saw you again? She was so disappointed when she thought you didn't remember her."

He looked at her, aware of an odd, touching affection. Although he had seen her frequently over the last nine months, he had never really gotten to know her, never _thought _of getting to know her. A pleasant girl, yes, cheerful and good-natured, but he had never taken the time to see if there was anything beyond the light hearted exterior. She was diametrically different to Christine. Where Christine was all gentle dreaminess, Meg was earthy practicality. Probably didn't have an imaginative bone in her body. He had often privately wondered what common ground these very different girls could have found to form such a close friendship. But he saw now that both shared a value for honesty that must have formed a bond between them.

"I'm still going to find her," he said. "You don't need to worry about that part of it. I'll use everything in my power." His eyes darkened, reflecting the slate grey clouds above them. "Even if I find what I've been fearing all this time." He swallowed hard, and looked back at her, and a softness crept its way into his expression, a softness that had been absent for too long. "I won't forget what you've done for me today."

She smiled teasingly, although she felt oddly like crying. "A hefty barrage of insults and a pain in the side. I don't blame you."

She was rewarded by a faint quirk of the mouth that couldn't quite be called a smile, though it was fairly close.

"The truth is… I can't confront him in his own lair and he knows it, damn him. Just as you did. He'd know I was coming before I'd even know I was approaching myself. We three – you, me and Madame Giry – aren't enough to take him. I know I dismissed the police, but what other option do we have?"

Someone behind him cleared their throat.

"I may be able to help you there," said Madame Giry.


	14. Calvary

**The Mask and Mirror**

_But in this heart of darkness  
All hope lies lost and torn  
All fame, like __love__ is fleeting  
When there's no hope anymore _

_Pain__ and glory, hand in hand  
A Sacrifice, the highest price_

(Apocalyptica – Hope vol. 2)

Chapter 14

Music had always been a part of him; the instinctive refuge for a lonely soul that had no other outlet. He hated it and loved it, with the very narcissistic self-loathing he felt towards himself. It was his dreams and his passions and his hopeless yearnings, while being his anger and his jealousy and his cruel despair. It soared to the remote pinnacles of transcendent beauty and plumbed the very dregs of degradation and corruption. At times, it came to him so easily, an internal defence mechanism against the outside world that threatened to break through his self-imposed exile; at other times, like now, it hopelessly eluded him.

He sat staring hard at the organ, seeking to find some source of inspiration to try and forget what he must inevitably do.

He would have to take her away.

Erik was no fool. He had spent too much of his life being hunted to know every moment he passed here increased his danger. It was only a matter of time before Christine's disappearance would be traced to the Opera House, and once that happened he was a dead man. His only hope was to vanish, and take Christine with him. There was no question in his mind whether or not to let her go. He was not going to lose her. Not now. He had come too far for that.

But despite the painful memories that being here awakened, the prospect of leaving was harder than he thought. In the short time he passed here, this house had become a sanctuary again, and now he was bracing himself to go back into the world, the terrible world. Distance was the only refuge he knew. He walked in the world without being a part of it. His fists clenched. Well if the world wanted him gone, then it would have to lose Christine as well. A half painful stab of something _(remorse?) _flashed through him as he thought of how she must have been mere days before; a young girl bride, rosy with hope and promise at the prospect of marrying the man she loved and living the life she had always dreamed of.

_Life doesn't always have happy endings, my love, _he thought grimly_. Believe I'm telling you the truth in that, if nothing else._

He already knew where he was going to take her. _I want to see _sun_ again, Nadir, feel its heat on me. _He smiled bitterly. If he had his very own Calvary to walk: a way strewn with pebbles and thorns, and haunted by his own personal demons, where could be more appropriate than the desert? Christ had retreated to the wilderness for solitary prayer and isolation; the harsh-scrubbed land Erik planned to venture to would rather be his Golgotha. He bore wounds great as the Lord himself had to endure – invisible, but inwardly rending him apart with misery.

But Jesus had had a loved one at his side. Even through the piercing agony of a crown of thorns; the hot drops of blood obscuring his vision… he had had a mother who loved him. Erik closed his eyes and thought of Mary, blinded by tears at the sight of her son, weeping inconsolably.

Who would ever weep for him?

He thought of Christine, looking up at him without speaking as she kissed the tears from his mouth. The once adoration turned to loathing and disgust. _Angel. Father. Fiend. Murderer. _

_I tried so hard for you, Christine. Even after the mob tore my only home to pieces, I put it right, made a place for you that was a paradise. You could have been happy there. That is all I wanted. I wanted it so much I thought I'd die, but it wasn't enough._

Nothing he did would ever be enough. And he knew why. He had lost his chance at salvation a long time ago.

_My God, my God… why have you forsaken me?_

Erik's fingers passed over the organ keys, but he had already forgotten he was in an underground lair, miles below the surface of the world on a cold November afternoon. In his mind, he felt the sun of nearly two thousand years ago beating down upon his back, imagined the searing pain of a spear passing through flesh and the taunts he had endured years ago merging into one crowd of mockery. The shouts and derisive laughter were underpinned by the absence of heartrending sobs he knew would never come. He pictured a face so familiar to him: pale, framed by dark hair, turning away until it blurred and disappeared entirely, leaving him alone.

Always alone.

"Erik?"

The tentative voice startled him, seeming to come from very far away. The mist in his head seemed to clear slightly and his fingers released some of their residual tension. But the sense of loneliness and isolation, fear and despair didn't leave him, but remained rooted in his chest with a deep, throbbing pulse of pain. He realised he was taking deep, gasping breaths.

He opened his eyes, the world gradually returning to focus. Christine was stood there, her face filled with emotion. He could feel the warmth emanating from her slender frame. She was looking at him with deep pity, wide eyes dark and earnest.

Erik cleared his throat, attempting to shake off the after-effects of the lingering strains of nightmare and memory. His voice was hoarse. "Did I wake you?"

She shook her head. "I couldn't sleep."

He looked at her a half blindly; filled with a sudden blaze of pain and yearning. His long fingers reached outwards and a terrible jolt shot through her at the thought he might touch her. She flinched and recoiled. Erik's hand fell back to his side.

In order to cover the moment of awkwardness, Christine said quickly, "What were you playing? I haven't heard it before."

"No. It's a piece I composed myself. It tells of Mary, the mother of Christ, enduring the agony of her son's crucifixion, loving and grieving for him, yet helpless to intercede."

Christine realised her eyes had filled with tears. "It's heartbreaking."

"You're surprised." It wasn't a question.

She flushed slightly. "No, I just – I didn't think you were religious."

"Oh, I believe in God. Only a fool does not. But since He has evidently chosen to abandon me, I refuse to worship Him." His hands drifted over the keys. "And yet…" he murmured. "It _is_ beautiful. The thought of such a self sacrificing love that can redeem the world."

Christine's glance fell to the books that were heaped haphazardly on top of the organ. For someone who was so adamantly averse to the Christian faith, Erik had all manner of religious books in his house, ranging from the Holy Bible, to Dante, to Milton, right through to the philosophies of Swedenborg and the radical opinions of Blake. She picked up a copy of the _Arcana Caelestia_, wondering if anyone so seemingly fallen as Erik could hope to ever gain spiritual enlightenment. In her mind, she tried to reconcile the twisted murderer with the man she had glimpsed so moved by the story of the Passion and Resurrection. Outwardly, she was calm; inside, she grieved over this despairing man, wishing she could share his wounds or alleviate his pain.

"Have you never thought to go to Church, Erik?" she asked seriously. "There are early services which even you could attend unobserved." A slight hesitation. "You could go to confession."

He looked at her sharply, but there was thoughtfulness, not anger in his gaze. "The only person who knows the full extent of my sins is you, Christine. I'm sorry if I seem to burden you by saying this, but I merely mean I have no need of a confessor. To earn your forgiveness would be enough. In this life or the next."

Thump. The book fell from her hands and landed on the table.

"Well it shouldn't be enough," she said, more sharply than she intended. Christine saw Erik's eyes flicker in sharp surprise, but it didn't make her any less annoyed. She knew she was being unreasonably angry, but couldn't bring herself to stop. After everything that had happened between them, this new burden of responsibility he had thrust upon her – it was too much! "What about all the people you've hurt? Don't you care about making amends with any of them? Innocent people have _died _from your actions, Erik! Or does none of that matter so long as _I _forgive you?"

Erik went as still as a hunting predator. Then, slowly, he rose to his feet, turning to face her with grim deliberation. His voice was silken, barely concealed rage simmering beneath the surface. "Since you seem to place such a high value on _honesty_, my dear, I'll be honest. I couldn't care less about anyone else. So what if they suffered? It's nothing compared to what I've suffered. And if you're talking about the Opera House – they had it coming to them. Carlotta's arrogance, the shallow, vapid actors, Monsieurs Firmin and Andre who dared to challenge me – _me!_ And not to mention _your _little trick you pulled on that stage." She winced. "All you had to do was agree to see me, sing for me, love me. But no. Had you not been so cruel, so unbelievably _foolish _as to play a game in which you were over your head, the damage that night could have been spared. The Opera House wouldn't have burned were it not for your wilful defiance." He watched with grim satisfaction the look of dawning horror spread itself across her features. "Yes, if you're going to be laying blame around, I suggest you allocate yourself a fair portion! Any blood spilled that night is on your hands just as surely as it is on mine. How does _that _rest with your precious conscience, Christine?"

She was backing away, hands raised to her mouth, looking slightly sick.

"I wonder how your admirable fiancée feels, knowing the woman he loves is responsible for so many deaths. Has he put from his mind? Does he try and shut it out when he lays beside you at night?"

Christine found her body was wracked with tremors. "You're hateful," she said, her voice shaking. "I didn't _make_ you do anything."

"Perhaps," he said coldly. "But you're still the reason it happened. You've always been the reason."

"How can you – how _dare _you blame me for what happened? Joseph Buquet, Piangi – you killed them! You killed them!" Her breaths came short and fast. "And you feel nothing – you really don't care, do you? And now you're trying to drag me down with you – you're _evil, _you're twisted, I can't even believe I might have thought any different –"

His eyes flared, like obsidian held before a flame. "What are you saying?" he snarled. "That you're changing your mind? Coddling a murderer looking a little less appealing now?" A twisted sneer further disfigured his features. "A little late to back out now, my dear. We had an agreement. You _chose _this, Christine, remember! I never forced you into anything. The decision was in your power."

She let out a strangled, high-pitched laugh. "Power! What power? It's just another illusion, isn't it? I never had any power over you, not really." Her voice rose and she sounded on the verge of tears. "Why did you even _ask _me? If I'd refused, you would have simply drugged me and taken me with you in some opium induced delirium, or held a knife at my throat and terrified me into compliance. Pretending the decision lay with me was just to lull me into a sense of false security, an opportunity to tighten the silken snare. Admit it – admit that's what you did!"

He was silent, but she could feel the anger radiating off him in white-hot waves.

"You don't even try to deny it," she said bitterly.

"Why should I?" he responded viciously with real hatred in his eyes. "You've already had me tried and condemned. Feels good, does it? To be so complacent in your moral superiority? And since you _are_ in my power now, let me make things clearer. I could force you to do anything and who would prevent me? I could make you cry. I could make you scream with pain." His eyes narrowed. "I could make you die."

"You wouldn't," said Christine. "You _couldn't._"

His eyes were impassive; that, more than anything, frightened her. "No," he agreed quietly. "I couldn't. Even after everything you've done to me, I couldn't. But we both know there are other ways to destroy a person. No one can you like I can hurt you."

Christine wrapped her arms around herself, knowing all too well he spoke the truth. Now she loathed her violent, terrible captor. She loathed the subterranean terror of his lair, the endless length of time down here in which she could feel her hopes steadily dying. "Why?" her voice came out as a half wail of accusation. "Why are you putting me through this? I was _happy_!"

"You didn't look so happy when my carriage found you. I seem to recall you were crying – but maybe it was just the ice."

"Do you expect me to believe that? That you brought me here for _my own good?_" Christine knew she was sounding half crazed by now, but everything about this situation bordered on insanity. "That your motives weren't entirely selfish?"

His eyes flashed. "_I _selfish?"

"Yes! Everything you've done is selfish. Capturing me, keeping me here, manipulating me into remaining with you, all of it is love of the most selfish kind – love that only cares for itself, serves only its own wants, careless of the suffering of others."

"So you think your love is selfless? That _is _interesting." His lip curled into a sneer. "I – and half the Opera House, I imagine – recall the merry dance you led the Vicomte on for weeks on end. How long did it take for you to finally confess the _true _nature of your music teacher? Or that you had visited me, alone and unchaperoned? He must have been so flattered that you wanted to keep your engagement a secret – as though _you _had the right to be ashamed of marrying him!"

"You know that wasn't the reason!"

"No. Perhaps not. But doesn't it occur to you that if you were as in love with him as you profess, that you should have married him straight away, regardless of what society said? Wouldn't that have been the most definitive way to ensure you would be protected, and to remove yourself from me forever? Instead you choose to act like some coquette; attempting to pacify two men at once, clandestine meetings on the rooftop with one, and flaunting yourself on stage with the other! Too cowardly to end my hopes and sever ties with me entirely, and dragging out the anguish and anticipation of your prospective husband! And you say _I _have acted selfishly. At least I am honest in what I want, and don't play with the hopes of others. Are you able to say the same?"

Something in Christine's face seemed to break apart an instant, and Erik knew he had succeeded in hurting her. He had always been able to tell when Christine was hurt. Her face was so open, transparent as glass, every emotion clearly visible, not through choice, but that it never occurred to her to try and hide what she was feeling. It was an imprudent weakness in the self-seeking and ruthless world of theatre. And equally dangerous elsewhere. When Erik had first seen her, he had instantly seized upon this vulnerability and realised he could use it to his advantage. But eventually he came to realise that causing Christine pain was too heartbreaking and shattering to watch. Whenever it happened, any sense of satisfaction he might have felt died immediately on seeing how deeply wounded she was.

A dagger seemed to twist painfully in his heart when she turned away fiercely – as though she couldn't bear to look at him anymore.

"Christine –" he started to say, but something in his beautiful voice jarred, like a familiar note being played out of tune.

She shook her head in wild abandon, not wanting to hear what he had to say. "I hate this! I hate the fact you know me like you do – that you can hurt me like you do. Whatever connection there is between us – I didn't want it. I never wanted it!"

"No more than I did," he responded in equal parts despair and loathing. "You'll just have to learn to live with it. Like you expected me to do all those months when you were away living your happy dream, not caring less whether I was alive or dead."

"I _did _care! You _know_ I cared!"

"Yes," he said, his voice dripping with spite. "Your concern was palpable. Perhaps I missed it when I was lying half-starved in a ditch."

"If you knew," she said in a low, intense voice, "how much I sometimes –"

"Hate me?" Erik finished quietly, meeting her eyes with a terrible calmness.

Christine stopped short, whirling round, dark hair whipping across her face. Her ears were ringing; she pressed her hands against her face that were hot with the blood pounding through her veins. She was looking at him in a frozen sort of horror.

"Surprisingly easy, isn't it?" he said softly. "I told you it would be."

"Don't," in muffled tones.

He idly examined a shirt cuff, the insignificance of the action belying the hardness underpinning his voice. "It's the worst feeling in the world. Realising you hate the person you love most."

"I don't love you," she replied dully.

"Then why are you looking so devastated?"

Christine opened her mouth to reply and was acutely aware of the sensation of being oddly disconnected from herself. The sense of distance made her very aware of the picture they must make; the slender girl half shying away, white skirts spreading around her like a pale silken flower, the man leaning towards her in manner less predatory than imploring, his shadow filling the unbreachable void between them. The realisation caused the balance of power – so precarious between them – to subtly shift again. What came out, when she finally spoke, wasn't what she had been intending to say at all.

"Because I might not be in love with you, but there is still something. I don't know how to explain it, except that I've never felt about anyone the way I feel for you."

He was silent, only a subtle tensing of his posture betraying that he was listening intently. The candlelight fell on his porcelain mask, flaring it into seeming mobility in a way that it seemed to hold a life and consciousness of its own. She tried to read his expression, but the darkness gathered in the eyelets of the mask merely deepened the shadows already there. Apprehension, like a chill breeze, rippled along her skin. Who was she really talking to?

"Is that true?" he said slowly. "That you've never felt this way about… anyone?"

She placed her head in her hands realising she had said entirely the wrong thing. "Oh God, please don't take that as a means of false hope, Erik."

"They were your words, Christine, not mine."

And God, did she wish she could take them back. "You can't force me to love you, Erik."

"And _you _can't force me not to."

"If I try to convince you, it's because I don't want to see you hurt." She bit her lip, looking suddenly distant and pensive. "I don't know… perhaps this was a mistake."

"What?" he said, although he thought he knew. He suddenly felt very cold.

She met his hard gaze miserably. "Agreeing to this."

Erik turned away from her, walking up and down, trying to keep pace with his thoughts. His heart was thumping unpleasantly. An odd sensation was overcoming him; it felt rather like defeat. At least, until he had mastered himself enough to really look at Christine and see her for what she was: just a girl, nervous and unsure. Even now, he could see her wavering, torn between duty and that instinct for self-preservation that everyone possessed. He knew what most people would do in her situation. But Christine wasn't most people. Perhaps that was why she appealed to him. She had accused him earlier of manipulating her feelings, and he knew from experience he didn't even need to push her too hard to make her place someone else's needs above her own. So he said bluntly, the faintest hint of an accusation in his voice, "I ask you again: are you changing your mind?"

Her shoulders slumped forward, and her saw her hands clench against her knees. Her face was hidden under the coils of brown hair but he knew it would be white – startlingly white. Not the ostentatious, powdered pallor of Carlotta, nor the milky roseleaf complexion of Madame Giry's daughter, but something more, something beyond that. It was a translucent and fragile paleness with a strangely transient quality, like the last snowfall of winter or the path of moonlight on water.

"You know I'm not," she said quietly.

The surety with which she spoke still managed to surprise him.

"You're not?" he repeated rather blankly. "Even after –?"

She looked up at him, her eyes very bright. "Even after you said some unspeakably unkind things to me just now?"

"Well," he said. "Yes."

She sighed and pushed her hair back from her face. She leaned against the table, sounding tired. "I made you a promise, Erik. I'm not going to break it after just one argument."_ And I somehow doubt you would just let me go, _she added in thought if not in speech_._

He sat down on the stool and glanced across at her. Although it was hard to tell in the dim light, he thought her expression might have softened very slightly.

"It never is though, is it?" he said.

Christine blinked. "Never is what?"

"It's never just one argument."

"No," she agreed. "It isn't."

There was a silence between them, in which Christine realised Erik must keep a clock somewhere down here; she could hear its slow chimes. It hardly mattered to her. Time, like a lot of things in this place, had lost all meaning. Trying to cling onto reality was becoming steadily harder and she wondered dimly if this was what Erik had intended. She was beginning to realise just how easy it was to descend into madness in this curious underworld.

Erik's voice made her jump out of her own depressing thoughts.

"Why can we never seem to get along?"

Her hands were pressed against the side of her head, easing out the lines of tension that had become manifest over the last few hours. "I don't know," she said honestly. "Perhaps it just wasn't meant to be."

"No," he said. "No. I won't believe that."

"What we want isn't always what's best for us. Two people, however intense their feelings are, sometimes cause each other nothing but pain."

"But aren't some things worth the pain?"

"Not like this," she said. She sighed and looked up at him. "Erik, we tear each other apart. You know it's true."

"Be as that may…" His expression was set and stubborn. "What doesn't work here may work somewhere else." He saw her stand up a little straighter, strained and coiled with tension, and he continued remorselessly. "I took the liberty of packing some belongings for you. We're leaving. Leaving this cellar, leaving Paris –" He paused, the words echoing with a resounding clarity. "Leaving France."

"I know," Christine said, her voice weary with hollow resignation. "I know we are."

**(A/N: Review and I'll give you brownies.)**


	15. Remembrance

**The Mask and Mirror**

Chapter 15

She walked very slowly, her footsteps causing the faintest hint of an echo to resound against the stone walls. There were no windows so far beneath the earth, but somehow she knew it was night by the overwhelming nocturnal silence and hushed stillness. Not even the faintest ripple disturbed the mirror-like surface of the lake, smooth and cold as the facet of a jewel. She turned away from its chill beauty that stood between her and the world above and half in longing, half horror, moved onward like one in a trance. The sight of the organ shrouded in shadow, the dimly burning candles, the ornate velvets made her think she was in Church.

_In the presence of an angel._

It was another one of her illusions that had died. So much of the naïve ingénue had been stripped away that the young girl who had arrived at the Opera House, her heart wrung with pain of loss, seemed part of another life.

_But aren't some things worth the pain? _

His voice came back to her, and she saw again the expression on his upturned face. The agony and the hope.

_Not like this._

She found at last what she sought – the once magnificently tasselled edges of the drapery bore marks of fire, the fabric was torn in places – but behind, there was the bust she had caught a fleeting glimpse of. The gold-wrought angel was of a design similar to those that once encircled the Opera stage, but had presumably been rejected as a flawed piece. The face, though elaborately carved, was distinctive in its lack of symmetry; one eye was larger than the other, the mouth was uneven and there was a dullness over the face as a whole, as though the metal used had been merely dross. Yet its very imperfection touched her deeply. The metal was cold and smooth to her tentative fingers. This was something real.

Christine dropped to her knees, and raising her head, looked at the angel before her.

_Can God exist in this terrible place?_

The immobile face seemed weighted with immeasurable sadness; she almost believed it could have wept tears of gold. Her lips moved in soundless prayer.

_Our Father, who art in heaven,  
hallowed be thy name,  
__Thy Kingdom come,  
thy will be done,  
on earth as it is in heaven  
Give us this day our daily bread  
and forgive us our trespasses,  
as we forgive those who trespass against us –_

Christine's hands, clasped in a pious childlike gesture, tightened perceptibly, white knuckles visible beneath the skin.

_What am I? _

_Am I the sinner or the sinned against?_

Again, she heard Erik's voice in her head, speaking with cold accusation. _At least I am honest in what I want, and don't play with the hopes of others. Are you able to say the same?_

She tried to tell herself he had not meant it. He had only been saying it to hurt her. But she couldn't lie to herself. Everyone surrounding her had been so violent in their condemnation of Erik that her own actions had been passed by unquestioned. No one had challenged her, until today. Had she really been selfish? Had she knowingly chained Erik to her by never rejecting him completely? Was this the reason for her own misery and the misery of those around her?

Erik apparently thought so.

_It's me, _she thought in dismay. _This all happened because of me. _Christine looked down and realised she had been clenching her hands, so tightly that her fingers had become numbed. She unfurled them in an attempt to restore warmth and life. Whatever choice she made, it seemed to be the wrong one. She had never felt so lost, or in need of guidance as she did now. Once again, she tried to picture herself in church, using her imagination to endow the bare walls with statues of saints and the Stations of the Cross. But the images would not come. All she saw was the wreckage and destruction, a testament to the knowledge that something awful had happened here.

She could remember only one time in her life when she had tried to reach out to God and failed. The aftermath of her father's death. It all came back to her so clearly; the long cold nights spent crouching on her floor with no more tears left to cry, faced with the bleak and terrifying emptiness of life that went on. Madame Giry was stern and frightened her. There was no comfort for a scared little girl who had lost her world, and no one would tell her why. Christine felt a sense of faintness overcome her as past and present blurred. _Am I a terrible person? Is that why God won't come? I wait, every night I wait, but there is nothing beyond. Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust. That's what they said at the funeral._

That was what they said when they lowered her father into the earth.

That was what she had resigned herself to believe.

That was until the night an angel had appeared, and restored her faltering faith.

Christine stood up shakily, mouth pressed in a thin white line. She would not think about that now. The old betrayal still hurt. Was there anyone she could trust? The answer came to her at once, and she was overcome by a sudden longing for Raoul so intense it seemed a living thing inside her chest.

Christine stood up and made her way like a sleepwalker towards the table. Before she could even think about what she was doing, she had taken hold of a pen and a blank piece of paper, and sat down very abruptly on the cold floor. There was only one thought going round and round inside her head. _Talk to Raoul. _Even now, after all these months, her first instinct was to go to her to her childhood friend and love. She tried to visualise the loving familiarity of his face, little of the boy left except if it was in the open warmth and trust that was unchanged from their childhood. Hardship had not warped it, grief had not marred it. He was the one constant in her life, and just knowing he would always be unfailingly, unchangingly _Raoul _brought her both comfort and indescribable pain.

The night they argued. She had never thought to see such an expression in his eyes – such haunted despair.

_It's impossible to come out of any such experience entirely unscathed, _he had said.

_No._ _I will never change, _she told herself fiercely. _Whatever happens, I will not let myself become anything other than what I am. I will always be the same. And how I feel about you will always be the same._

She lay shivering against the cold flagstones. The blank sheet of paper in front of her blurred before her eyes, and in a daze her shaking fingers took hold of the pen. Suddenly, frantically, urgently, she began to write. Painfully buried thoughts rose in her mind and poured onto the paper in unsteady confusion. She wrote until her wrist ached and her head was throbbing with sharp, piercing pains. Damp curls fell over her face, blinding her, preventing her from reading her own confessions.

By the time she had finished and the pen had clattered from her cramped fingers, she felt sickened and drained. Time passed only in the beating of her heart. When the cold finally became too much to bear, Christine eased herself upright and a single glance informed her the paper was filled; her usually neat slanting hand small and cramped.

_Oh Raoul, _she thought wildly. _What am I doing here?_

In a mechanical action borne of habit, Christine folded the piece of paper and began to cast her eyes around for an envelope before realising the futility of such an act. What was she hoping to do with it? Give it to Erik to deliver? Did she think he would just obligingly send it to Raoul for her?

Then again, it was the least he could do considering what she had given up to help him.

She sifted through the contents on the desk, recalling that the last time she had done this she had inadvertently unearthed a stack of Erik's letters. _And look where that got you, _she reminded herself grimly. Erik's residence hadn't exactly been tidy at the best of times, more of a sprawling antiquated disorder, but in light of the recent damage, trying to find something as innocuous as a stack of envelopes was well nigh impossible. Not to mention a seal… Christine recalled the letters sent by Opera Ghost, chillingly sealed with a blood coloured death's head, and felt her skin crawl. Still, the fire couldn't have destroyed everything –

"A little early for a spring clean, don't you think?"

Christine was certain her heart leapt out of her body in shock. With a muffled gasp, she spun round and found Erik stood behind her, dressed only in a pair of trousers and a loose shirt – had she ever seen him sleep? – and didn't fail to notice the rope he was trying his best to conceal. He followed the direction of her gaze, and, seeing the game was up, displayed the noose in front of her with an almost gleeful flourish. "Occupational hazard of being a Ghost, I'm afraid." He gave a macabre smile. "I tend to have problems with… uninvited guests."

Her heart still hammering in her chest, Christine didn't quite find herself up to the task of reprimanding him for his 'kill first, ask questions later' policy. Not to mention, she had never seen a man other than Raoul in such a state of undress before. She tried to look everywhere that wasn't his half open shirt. "Erik, it's – it's the middle of night."

A faint smile quirked the corner of his mouth as he regarded her curiously. "I could say the same to you. What were you doing?"

She knew that, ironic as it was, the one thing Erik couldn't take from her was a lie. And she didn't intend to deceive him, even when a comforting lie would have been easier than the truth. Her grip tightened on the paper in her hand. _I hope I know what I'm doing. _"I… wanted to ask you to do something for me."

"What?"

She hesitated, but only for a moment. "I want you to deliver a letter."

The forgotten rope slid unheeded to the floor, where it lay coiled, snake-like. Otherwise, only a slight tensing of the shoulders betrayed Erik's reaction. His voice was careful and guarded. "A letter? And who would you be writing to?"

Christine just looked at him.

"To him." He looked away, his normally expressive eyes flat and dark. But there was a pulse beating rapidly in his throat that was visible where the shirt collars fell away from his neck. "Of course him."

"Yes," she said softly. "Erik – I have to."

"You have to? Ah, I understand now. You say you'll come with me to placate me, while all the while waiting to be saved." He looked around with an elaborate pretence of concern and turned back to her mockingly. "Well, it's been a while and I don't see your white knight coming to the rescue."

Christine ignored the callous remark, and the pang of despair it struck deep in her chest.

"Where are you taking me?" she asked bluntly.

The question had caught him off guard; she saw that at once, in the little jerk of his chin, and the sharp glance he threw her. Then his half-face smoothed out, and he said coolly, "I think it best for the moment that you don't know."

Her eyes met his, bright, accusing. "You're afraid I'll run away."

"That's exactly what I'm afraid of."

Despair was being corroded with the sting of bitterness. "So you don't trust me."

"You did try to leave before," he pointed out.

She released a breath of frustration. "That was before I –" Christine swallowed and continued in a slightly calmer vein. "I've already explained that to you. I'm not going to try and justify my actions again."

She knew she was asking a lot of him. But then, he was asking a lot of her. His narrowed gaze was fixed on the piece of paper in her hand, and a bitter part-smile was playing around his mouth.

"So what did you write?" By now, she recognised the anger the seemingly offhand tone sought to disguise. "An elaborate account of your maltreatment? A description of how best to navigate the Parisian tunnels to find you? Or did you perhaps tell him –"

"Tell him _what_? I don't even know where we're going, or for how long. You've been very good at keeping me in the dark, Erik! I am taking a lot on faith. Do you want me to prove it?" In a gesture of uncommon aggression, she thrust the letter towards him, almost slamming it against his chest. "There," she said, her voice shaking. "Read it. If you don't believe me, read it in front of me. Go on."

Erik stared at the folded piece of paper hovering a hair's breadth from him. Overwhelming curiosity was almost enough to make him snatch it up and examine it at once, but the sight of Christine stopped him. Her eyes were fixed on him, darkened with anger, and she was white to the lips. With a sinking feeling, he knew that if he took the letter from her now, it would prove beyond a doubt that he didn't trust her. And, after all, he hardly had the right to accuse her of being untrustworthy, considering his past actions.

"Alright," he said. "Alright – I believe you. You don't need to get angry to make your point."

She relaxed visibly, and he could almost see the frustration and anger draining from her. Christine had never been able to hold on to her anger. It was a part of what made her so compassionate. "So you'll send it?" she said, and although she was speaking calmly, he could still sense the eagerness beneath the surface. What could he say? Could he refuse in any way without her thinking him completely despicable?

"Yes. I'll send it," he said, a little stiffly.

For a moment, he wondered if Christine was going to throw her arms around him (and surely he could say he'd earned that small reward?) but she didn't. Instead, she drew closer to him and took his large hands, holding them between her slender white ones. A hard shudder passed through him at her cold and earnest grip. He looked down at her, suddenly acutely conscious of the way her dark curls clung to her neckline, the beat of the pulse in her throat and the steady rise and fall of her chest beneath the thin shift she wore.

"Thank you," she said quietly. "It means a lot."

Erik nodded tightly, unable to speak through the emotions crowding his throat. Her felt her solemn brown eyes on him and saw her half parted lips, and recalled the one time in his life she had ever kissed him. The memory was seared onto his mind like a brand; the insistent pressure of her body drenched in water and arching against his, the trembling feel of her lips and the shaky half whispers into his mouth…

Erik realised with a start how tightly he was gripping her hands and released her quickly.

"Give me the letter," he said gruffly. "I'll deliver it now, before I…" His voice trailed off.

She handed the paper over without a word, raising her eyebrows in slight question.

Erik strode away, high colour flaming his cheeks. He wondered what he had been on the verge of saying. _Before I what? Change my mind? Do the unthinkable and kiss her? _The very thought set his nerve-endings on fire. He snatched up an envelope for something to occupy his shaking hands with, not daring to follow that train of thought to its conclusion. _Empty dreams_, he told himself sternly. _Never going to happen. _But still, she had touched him of her own volition. And that at least was something.

* * *

He had once been everything to her. Alive to every thought and prayer and hope and dream. It had been so much more than just coaching her voice. He was not only a teacher, but a confidant and friend. She had shared everything with him.

And now?

Her innermost thoughts were sealed away in an envelope for another to read.

Erik passed the oars through the water with swift, rapid strokes, his mind unable to drag itself away from the letter buried within the folds of his cloak. Questions were teeming through him, as many and varied as the ripples his motions were causing across the lake. Had she written about him at all? And if so, what would she have said? Condemned him as the author of all her misery?

It was forbidden fruit. Or madness, perhaps. To throw away any sense of honour or decency just when she was beginning to trust him; to lose all this – for what?

_To know_._ To know – one way or the other._

When Erik had been fourteen years old, a gypsy had once asked him if he wished to know the day he would die. He had said yes. Then the gypsy laughed and said that no one could know that, because to know death was to know the limitations of what your own lifetime could hold.

_No one deserves to have the shadow of a single day hanging over their existence. Not even you, scarface._

_But if it's coming anyway – better to know, isn't it? Then you can be resigned for it. Better than the uncertainty, the waiting._

He felt the same way now. And if Christine already hated him, there seemed to be no point in dragging out his own torture. It took a self-will far stronger than his to resist such an opportunity. Besides, what Christine didn't know wouldn't hurt her. He shook away the image of her entreating face, her hands soft and firm against his own. _It means a lot. _He could stop. Stop all this right now, and escape with his integrity intact. Temptation resisted. But pulling away from her earlier seemed to have drained him of the remains of his willpower; either that, or he really was as awful a person as everyone seemed to think he was.

Pulling the oars into the boat and resting them across one of the seats, Erik pulled out the letter, running a finger across the envelope, fleeting sense of morality battling with what could be perhaps the only opportunity to discover what Christine really thought of him. Curiosity inevitably won. He had known what he was going to do, had probably known it the moment he agreed to take the letter from her. To pretend anything else was sheer hypocrisy. Breaking the seal (resealing the envelope would not be a problem once in the city) he pulled the sheet of paper out and unfolded it, excitement unfurling in the pit of his stomach. Burning with curiosity, he began to read.

_I hardly know what to say. My hand keeps trembling and I'm unsure how to begin. Why can't I write? Why can't I write? I have so many things I want to tell you but I can't find the words. But this may be the last chance – no. I will not think it. I must be brave._

_I am – Raoul, I am with Erik! Perhaps you guessed it already, but he has found me again. Does this surprise you? Or did you too sense that our lives were not fully our own with his shadow ever between us? Please don't fear for me, he hasn't harmed me in any way. I am quite well. I have everything here I need; he has seen I want for nothing, and – oh Raoul! I cannot lie to you. I am _not _well. If only I could tell you how I really felt. Everything here is dark and confusing and violent, and I don't know what to think of anything. One moment I am half faint from terror, the next, my heart is so wrung with pity I feel I must surely bleed to death from it. I believe it is the thought of you alone that keeps me sane. Oh Raoul, I am so cold and lonely and afraid! He's taking me somewhere – he has not told me where, and I fear to ask. Yet a part of me feels obligation bound. The torment in his face is more effective than any persuasion or threats on his part. I've seen hell, Raoul, and it's in his eyes. It's as though a part of me can't rest until it's done._

_I tried to pray tonight, but the words wouldn't come. I think God has abandoned this place._

_Do you remember when we used to lie on the sands at twilight and wait for the ship to come and take the souls of lost children? The ship has come at last – but I never thought I would step onto it alone. If you try to follow me he will kill you, do you understand that? And I think I should die if I lost you._

_I love you, dearest – if only you knew how much. It has and always will be you.I only ask that you find it in your heart to forgive me and relieve the conscience of your poor, suffering, helpless one. I will come back to you and I pray to God it will be soon, but I fear something terrible is going to happen. I can't sleep. I close my eyes and all I see is him. He's haunting me. _

_Goodbye, Raoul! Goodbye, and think of_

_Your broken hearted,_

_Christine_

He slowly lowered the piece of paper, feeling ill. Dry eyed and silent, he stared across the surface of the lake. The motion of the boat had faintly disturbed the water, waves pooling outward in ripples of oily green and black. Erik felt as though he were drowning in them. Occasional shafts of light slanted through cracks in the stonework, illuminating the subterranean cavern with iridescent gleams and stopping just short of penetrating the depths of cloying water. He wondered what it would be like to remain under there forever. Nothing but the dark weight of sunless depths pressing against his eyes, ears and throat in silence and oblivion.

There were worse things, Erik reflected, than not being able to feel.

Darkness was bleeding into his vision and he imagined himself falling forward, barely making a splash as the water closed over his head. Shivering, he pulled the edges of his cloak further around himself as he huddled deeper into the shadows of the boat, as though by doing so, he could hide himself from the world, from Christine, from his own foolish presumption. But his eyes were unwillingly drawn back to the letter, and each reading was like a laceration to the heart.

_I love you._

_It has and always will be you._

The words wavered before his eyes. The letter didn't say anything he hadn't already known – yet it changed everything. All those times he had spoken to her in sarcasm and despair, his every word conveying that same message that never needed to be said aloud, _I know you'll never love me. _

_But you always hoped, _whispered a voice at the back of his mind. _You never stopped hoping. You've been waiting and hoping from the moment you saw her that cold winters night standing in the street._

Erik cast his mind back to the memory of Christine under a pale moon and a black sky strewn with stars. The whole of Paris was frozen. And her lonely figure still as a carven statue, the tears of ice on her face and her dark curls coming loose from her veil. The image struck him as vividly now as it had then. She could not have known how long he watched her in secret, his heart breaking. She had looked so alone.

_But she wasn't alone_, the voice insisted. _She'll never be alone. Her life is full of love and from people far more worthy than you. Do you really think she needs_ you?

She would never know what it was like. How could she? Christine would always have those who would care for her, for such people inspired love instinctively. So what mattered his words of endless devotion compared to the countless others who must have said the same thing? His heart was choked with bitterness. He had said to Christine that the worst thing in the world was hating the person you loved most. Especially when you realised that that same person you lived and breathed and burned for could quite happily live without you.

It would be easy to blame her. One thing he had learned in his long life was that it was far easier to hate someone else than to hate yourself. To think that Christine could be so callously cruel! She must have known he would read such a letter. But the conviction died as quickly as it had come. Christine didn't think like that. She believed so steadfastly in the sanctity of a promise, even from someone like him, that she would no more consider his betrayal of her trust than she would have all those years ago, when she unquestioningly accepted the visitations of an angel. He had only his own immorality to blame.

Shrugging off the confines of his cloak that slid from his shoulders like black oil, Erik stood upright, the letter clenched tightly in his hand. The oars lay across the seat unmoving as the boat remained stationary, barely disturbed by the faintest eddying of dark water. He felt bound in place, his unwillingness like an unplucked rose rooted in centuries of earth. Christine. His rose without a thorn. Almost blinded by her sheer determination to believe in abstract concepts of redemption and hope and the goodness in everyone. She had no idea what she did, entrusting him with a letter pouring out her heart's devotion to someone who wasn't him. Yet there was no room in his heart to summon anger. He was calm with despair.

Over and over again, Erik pictured himself picking up the oars and rowing across the lake, passing through the Rue Scribe entrance and into the streets of Paris to post the letter…

… And each imagining brought him back here to the boat where each passing second delayed the inevitable –

_Who said it was inevitable?_

The thought seemed to come almost from outside himself, sharp as a needlepoint in its direct lucidity. With a steadiness of movement borne of cold resignation, Erik held his hand out, palm facing upwards, the piece of paper resting flat with shadows flickering across its surface. Looking closer, he could discern what might have been tear-tracks blurring the ink in places. The sight of it gripped his heart as he remained standing, lifting his head to stare over the edge of the boat. The surface of the lake was still and silent, black as obsidian.

For a fleeting instant, a faint prickling of his conscience caused him to hesitate.

_She would hate you for this. _

He crumpled the sheet in his hand bitterly.

_It doesn't matter, _he thought. _Nothing matters anymore._

He opened out his hand and the paper slid through his fingers, fluttering slowly in its path of descent before settling gently on the water. Erik stood by and watched it float away.


	16. Benediction

**The Mask and Mirror**

_I crawled out of the world  
And you said I shouldn't stay  
I crawled out of the world  
Can I make it right?  
Can I spend the night  
Alone?_

(Angie Hart – Blue)

Chapter 16

Still dressed in a Turkish robe although it was approaching midday, with the familiar scent of brewing coffee mingling with the faint aroma of incense that always lingered in his apartment, Nadir Khan was looking forward to a morning of uninterrupted peace and solitude. What he had not anticipated was a violent and persistent pounding on his front door. He got up from the table, wondering who on earth could be so desperate to speak with him. The only person he knew that threw social decorum to the winds in such a manner was Erik. However, the lecture he planned to give on consideration for other people's times of rising died on his lips when he opened the door and was faced instead with a strained faced aristocrat.

"Oh good," said the young man coolly. "You are in."

"Is there something I can help you with?" Nadir inquired blankly, completely unable to account for the man's presence.

"I certainly hope so," said Raoul. "I was given your address by a – a friend, who told me to come here. You don't know me, Monsieur, but I'm –"

"The Vicomte de Chagny, yes. Come in." The Oriental bowed slightly, as Raoul continued to watch him, stony eyed. "I've seen you at the Opera House, though I doubt you noticed me." The Persian's gaze suddenly became scrutinising, taking in the young man's creased shirt, loosened cravat and the wary, hunted look in his eyes. "You look a little… different."

"Bad night," said Raoul harshly. "Look, I don't have time for pleasantries. Madame Giry believes you can help us. If you can't, tell me now, because we don't have a lot of time."

Nadir said nothing as Raoul spoke, but stared at the younger man who had always seemed to possess an attraction that had nothing to do with his looks. It was the vivid animation and energy that was unconsciously expressed in every word and gesture, that, if lacking, would have made his appearance ornamental and entirely unfascinating. He had the air of someone who lived each moment as though looking forward to the next, passing through life with a high-spirited youthfulness that was as enviable as it was delightful to watch.

Now, however, he was white and drawn, with dark shadows like bruises under his eyes. His fair hair fell in tangles to his collar, the contrast all the more heightened by the rich opulence of the material. He looked like someone who was steadily fading away with sickness; even his eyes burned with the unnatural lustre of a fever. It would have been easy to resent this man who had crushed all of Erik's hopes, but Nadir could no more hate this pitiful figure of desperation than he could the kind-hearted nobleman driven by conviction of love and justice.

What had happened to work such a change in him? And Madame Giry, the ballet mistress? What had _she _to do with this?

Then an awful premonition stirred, very faintly beneath the surface. Nadir took a deep breath, framing his next words carefully.

"Has this – excuse my asking – has this something to do with Mademoiselle Daae?"

Even the Persian was shocked at the hard shudder that passed through Raoul when he said this. The younger man stared at him and then, very slowly, nodded.

Nadir swept a glance around the room, eyes falling on the decanter of whiskey stood on the mantle. Offering his guest a drink seemed the most sensible course of action, judging from his haggard state, but a driving curiosity and vague panic from an unknown source won out. So instead, he turned back to Raoul, who had not moved from his position in the doorway. The Persian automatically went and closed the door behind him and walked back into the centre of the room, feeling a disconnected sense of unreality. The Vicomte was staring distantly at the patterns on the Persian carpet, fists clenched at his sides.

"Tell me what has happened," Nadir said calmly.

And Raoul told him.

His voice was very calm, very detached, and Nadir listened, aware of surprise and then, strangely – _not _surprise. It all seemed awfully inevitable, as though he had seen this coming ever since Erik had turned up at his apartment and told him he had given up on Christine.

_Did he tell me, though? _Nadir wondered suddenly. _Did he actually say, in so many words, that he had given her up?_

He frowned, his mind going back over the conversation, trying to remember exactly what he had said.

_Perhaps not specifically. But he certainly led me to believe it._

The Persian tried to summon some form of emotion as the Vicomte's voice continued, as it seemed, from a very great distance, but he could see only Erik's face transcending the fog of the past, evoking memories thought long forgotten. Erik making some acerbic comment that he had chided himself for laughing at, Erik performing a trick that even the Shah's court – a place of magic and madness – had gaped at, Erik looking at him with dilated dark eyes through a haze of Opium, Erik's unmasked face strained and animalistic when his notoriety became his death-sentence, Erik's gaze filled with emotion when Nadir saved his life… _He's a part of me, _the Persian thought helplessly. _Not necessarily a part I like or want, but I'm bound to him. He's shaped the person I've become._

And how could you hate a part of yourself?

Sudden misery engulfed him at the thought of Erik's betrayal of his trust, but the feeling couldn't fully reach him; it was like sea washed against glass that protected his heart, case-hardened after a lifetime of loss. He closed his eyes, remembering holding onto Erik's arm, looking into his eyes. _You did a very noble thing, letting her go._

His normally rich, deep voice was corroded by bitterness. "I should have known when I saw him… I should have realised. I should have known."

"You saw him?" Raoul said suddenly, stirred from his state of apathy. "When?"

"A few days ago. He came to see me, because he wanted –" He broke off suddenly, shaking his head at his own gullibility. "He wanted to borrow my carriage."

The Vicomte's voice was very quiet. "You gave him your carriage?"

Nadir turned away looking around the small room where he had, over the years, entertained his self-professed charge and sometime friend. He blinked away the tears that suddenly rose at the back of his eyes. _I trusted you, Erik. Even when no one else would. I would have stood at your side and defied the world if you asked it of me, but instead –_

_What a fool I've been –_

"I really believed he had given her up," he said in a hollow tone. "Or wanted to believe it."

"You _wanted _to believe_," _said Raoul, cruelly. "Hasn't it occurred to you that's why he came to you? Because he knew that an appearance of contrition and a few choice phrases and you'd absolve him with no questions asked."

Nadir swallowed hard, understanding the inference of the words. _Do you really think he cares about you?_ _That he's ever cared for anyone other than himself? _

_No. I know him. I have to believe he can be redeemed. I have to._

He clenched his fists, feeling the rings – the remainder of his once substantial riches – driving into the flesh. "He needs absolution. But not by me."

Raoul's blue eyes darkened. "He deserves damnation."

And you think you should be the one to give it to him?" said the Persian, with a flash of rare anger.

"Yes," came the reply, without hesitation. "Yes, I think I've earned that right."

"Erik has hurt others before now."

"He killed my brother," said Raoul flatly. "I thought you should know."

Nadir flinched, as though physically struck. He looked at this man, who was little more than a boy, and thought suddenly of his own son who would have been about the same age, had he lived.

"I'm sorry to hear that. I lost someone too – once." His voice cracked with pain. It was the first time he had spoken of Reza to anyone in many, many years.

The Vicomte's voice was detached, belying the hard questioning in his eyes. "Tell me. Was it because of Erik?"

The Persian shivered. "Yes. But not in the way you think."

"And yet you still defend him."

Nadir took a deep, shuddering breath. "There were circumstances… things beyond my control. You wouldn't understand."

"No," said Raoul. "I don't understand why you continue to forgive him, time and time again when he's proven he doesn't deserve it. Oh yes, Monsieur – I forgave him too – for Christine's sake. Didn't put a bullet through his brain even when I would have been justified in doing so." His voice turned soft, contemplative. "Of course… I hadn't known about Philippe then. Perhaps that would have changed things."

"I know how you must be –"

"Do you know why Madame Giry had your address? Erik gave it to her. He told her that if ever he or Christine were in danger, to go to you, and that you can be trusted. Now Christine is in danger – and we need your help."

"I made it my duty to protect him," said Nadir softly. "Even if it was from himself."

"You know," Raoul said. "In your heart – you know he's in the wrong."

"I know it," said Nadir. "But it doesn't make it any easier."

The Vicomte looked at him, and a faint glimmer of hope flashed across his face like a beacon. "So you'll help me?" he said.

Nadir was silent a moment, and then nodded. "Until the end."

"And you'll tell me where he's taken her? Because I think you know."

"Before I tell you," the Persian said suddenly, looking straight into Raoul's eyes. "I need to know something. How much do you love the Mademoiselle?"

Raoul stared at the older man, bleak eyed. "I've loved Christine every moment of her life. I remember telling her years and years ago that I was going to marry her; we planned our wedding together as children. Even when I grew up and it seemed unlikely I would ever see her again, even when I knew what was expected of me for the respectability of our family, there was never anyone else. No one came close. I grew older, richer, and I never stopped thinking, never stopped hoping." He clenched his fists, voice now clouded with anger. "So if you think this is some half baked scheme, or fleeting impulse, or a romantic attempt at heroism, you're wrong. My God, you don't know how wrong."

"Algeria," said Nadir. "He's going to Algeria. At least initially. There was a boat he was planning to take. At least that's what he told me…" His voice trailed off.

"And how much do you trust him?"

"More than you do, evidently. Erik had no reason to lie to me. Not about that, even if he did about… other things."

Raoul's handsome face was set like stone. Then he looked up, and in his eyes was a silent appeal – wanting him to have been lying, to say that it wasn't true. When he realised it wasn't going to come, he gave a barely audible sigh.

"Algeria," he repeated softly. "I never thought it would be so far…"

"I meant what I said. That I will help you by any means within my disposal. If you're still willing to try and find her –"

Raoul's eyes blazed like ice crystals. _"Of course I'm willing."_

Nadir stepped forward and caught hold of the younger man's arm. "You don't have to be noble. Do you realise what this will mean? If you decide to leave, you have a house, an estate to be taken care of, servants, retainers – and yes, I know more about living in wealth than you might suppose – this isn't something to be taken up lightly. To abandon your responsibilities, your life –"

"What do I care about a life if she isn't in it?" cried Raoul.

Silence fell between the two of them. The Persian relaxed his involuntarily tight grip on Raoul's arm and rubbed his forehead, trying to ease out the lines of tension. His gaze travelled around the small apartment, a pitiful reminder of the prosperity he had lost. There were advantages, he thought, for not having anything to leave behind. It had seemed a woeful enough place to live out his remaining years, but still, there had been some comfort in the idea of stability – something which Persia, for its extravagances, had never guaranteed.

"So you're certain?"

"I'm certain."

"There is just one other thing…" The Vicomte turned around and looked back him. "If you try to hurt Erik, I will stop you."

"I know," said Raoul.

* * *

The darkness seemed to bleed into the room from between the half closed curtains, stealing across the low-beamed ceiling and casting its shadow over the floating motes of dust that made the air so parched and bone dry. She could smell wood, stale incense and the damp of a winter's night. Its chill crept into her bones. Coldness, like memory, stilled her.

He was stood by the window: a tall, distinctive figure, even when overcome with weariness. As her eyes adjusted to the sombre gloom, his features materialised until she saw him with clarity, traced the familiar-different profile and moved towards him, slow and half-willing. Dryness sealed her mouth; she wanted to speak and alert him to her presence, but his detachment was unnerving. His smooth aristocrat's hands were resting on the window frame as he closed his eyes, head bowed in silent contemplation.

"Are you alright?"

Raoul turned and looked at her. Meg flushed a little with heat _(but the room is cold)._ "Sorry. Of course you're not."

"No," said Raoul with a sigh, seeming to come to himself with an effort. "You're concerned. How are you holding up?"

She shivered at his eyes on her. "Honestly? I don't know. It still doesn't feel quite real."

"I know," he said distantly. "I do. I've been awake the entire night and all day before that. And it feels like the dream of a fever or some delirium. I'm still waiting to wake up, but a part of me knows I'm not going to. This is it, isn't it? This – walking nightmare. I talk, I eat, I _do, _but it's not me."

She walked up and joined him at the window. He had turned away from her again, looking outward, his gaze distant. His fingers traced an idle pattern on the glass.

"Raoul," she said, "you're being –"

He smiled wryly. "Self-indulgent. I know. You told me."

"I was actually going to say incredibly brave."

"Brave?" The bitter laugh caused his body to spasm slightly. "Do you think I feel brave?"

"You don't seem afraid."

"Oh, I am," he said. "Terribly. If you only knew –"

"Of Erik?"

"Of him, myself – I don't know. I'll do whatever it takes to find Christine, and I have this horrible feeling that I'll have to kill Erik, when it comes to it. And if I do – if it's the only way to save her from him… how could Christine live with loving a murderer? How could I expect her to? Will I have to save her only to lose her again?"

"It may not come to that," she pointed out reasonably.

"I don't know," he said. "It's just a feeling."

"And –" she hesitated. "Would you? Kill Erik, I mean? Even if it made her hate you?"

"Yes," said Raoul, steadily. "I'd do anything for Christine. Even if she never forgave me for it. Just like she would have married Erik to save my life."

Meg flushed suddenly, feeling as though she was intruding on something very private and very intimate, something that she had no right to be hearing. There was no doubt he meant it, too. His face was fierce and defiant; blue eyes no longer cold, but lit from an inner fire of passion and fury and resolve. She could see his lightly muscled shoulders were tense with the effort of holding himself together. The off-centre and tousled clothes merely served to reinforce his words; that he would walk through fire to save the girl he loved. Seeing him so inflamed made her aware that she felt somehow cold and alone. For all his confidential talking to her, he didn't need her, she wasn't _vital _to him the way Christine was. And that realisation was hurtful to her, more hurtful than she expected or wanted.

"The Gendarmes called while you were gone," she said dully. "That's what I came to tell you."

For a moment, it was clear Raoul had completely forgotten there were detectives currently combing Paris. "What did they say?"

"Well, as there was no sign of a struggle, no evidence that Christine had been taken against her will –"

Raoul let out a disbelieving laugh.

"And they also pointed out that she had been in the papers due to a recent scandal, and seemed to think that because she had been a singer and actress –"

"That she had ensnared the gullible Vicomte until a better offer came along, and skipped out of Paris with her newfound trinkets and jewels," finished Raoul grimly.

"That was the general implication, yes," said Meg.

He sighed, looking tense. "They wouldn't have been much help, anyway. Not when it became clear that Christine was no longer in Paris –" he broke off, hesitating.

"I know where he's taken her," said Meg quietly. "Maman told me."

"Good," he said, vaguely. "Good."

"And –" Meg glanced at him with a sudden, guilty flash of awful uncertainty. "You're still going after her?"

"Yes," said Raoul.

"I knew you would," she said, and then, to her shame and horror, burst into tears.

Raoul's eyes widened, his expression aghast. This was clearly the last thing he had expected. "Meg –"

She shook her head violently, furious at herself for acting so – so – _weak_, when she shouldn't even be thinking of herself at made a half impulsive movement – as though he had thought to put his arms around her and then thought better of it. Instead, he merely looked at her with deep sympathy, his blue eyes softening. Somehow, it was easier that he didn't try and offer useless words of comfort, but it dimly occurred to her that he must have seen Christine crying before, and she wondered how different his response would be if it were Christine here instead.

Meg jumped as his hand took hold of hers, feeling very warm and reassuring, and through her blurred vision, she glanced down and saw he had pressed a handkerchief into her grasp.

"Thank you," she said, in a muffled voice, and pressed it against her eyes. It helped a little, although there was nothing to be done for the choking, constricting spasms that shook though her body. It felt as though everything she had been suppressing had burst from her at last, stresses she didn't even realise she had been carrying. The bewilderment at first, and then concern for Raoul, she hadn't stopped to let herself think of Christine, Christine whom she cared for like a sister, and –

_Is it my fault? Is it my fault?_

"I'm sorry," she choked. "I didn't mean to fall apart like this –"

"No," he said with surprising gentleness. "No. Don't be sorry."

She half-turned, and he went to move away slightly, perhaps to give her some space, but her hands caught in the material of his shirt, fisting in the slightly creased fabric, and she rested her head on his shoulder and cried. It was a raw, uncontrollable, violent sort of outburst, somehow horrible in its lack of restraint. It was the way Christine had cried after her father died. Meg remembered listening to it those few nights before they had come to the Opera Dorms, how shaken and uncomfortable it used to make her feel that anyone could feel such terrible emotion.

She couldn't remember the last time she had cried. She had always had such an optimistic outlook on life, and had privately thought Christine's bouts of melancholy a little self-indulgent. In her happy young life, she had never suffered from grief or loss – other than a father whom she was too young to remember – and goodness, why couldn't she get a hold of herself and stop being so _stupid –_

"I'm fine –" she insisted angrily. "Honestly, I'm fine –"

His arms came around her a little awkwardly, and he was holding himself very still, waiting for the tide of emotion to spend itself.

"_Alright," _she finally admitted, lifting her face up to his. "Alright – I'm scared. I – I didn't think I would be – if I just –"

"Shush," he soothed her, stroking her shoulder in a movement that seemed strangely uncomfortable for one so self-assured. "It's all right. I know."

"Why is this happening?" she demanded, with sudden fierceness. "Why Christine?"

She felt Raoul shudder against her. "I don't know."

Slightly calmer now, she dared to ask something that she had been wondering for a while. "Do you think he really loves her?"

"Oh, he does," said Raoul grimly. "In his own sick, twisted way, he does love her. Otherwise, why else go to such lengths to have her? And the way he looked at her when they were performing _Don Juan… _it's horrible and it's disturbing, but in his own mind, it's quite real. I'm sure of that."

"You're right," she said. "It is horrible. Imagine being loved by no one."

A spasm of something – sadness? – passed across his face. "I can," he said. "And I do – sometimes."

Meg pulled away from him and wrapped her arms tight around herself as goosebumps prickled along her skin. She couldn't fully keep the bitterness from her voice. "I don't think you need to worry."

He looked away, his eyes suddenly bleak and cold. "Perhaps."

"Marguerite! Is the Vicomte with you?"

Raoul started slightly, both at the interruption, and at hearing Meg's full name.

"That's Maman," she said without expression, dabbing at her eyes and surveying the effect dispassionately in the window. "I suppose she'll want to talk to your Persian friend."

Raoul looked at her thoughtfully. "Marguerite. It's a pretty name."

Meg smiled slightly at her reflection, satisfied there were no traces of tears. "I hate it. It was my Grandmere's name. Apparently, Papa wanted to call me Juliette, but Maman wouldn't let him. She wanted something very traditional and sedate. Needless to say, it didn't rub off on me at all."

Raoul laughed – actually laughed.

"You should do that more often," she said.

"Thank you," he said. "For making me feel better – again."

"Perhaps I should start charging a fee." She made her tone light and playful. "Although next time I'll try not to cry all over you."

Raoul met her eyes with an earnest look she found difficult to meet. "She's lucky, you know. Christine. Having a friend like you."

"She'd laugh to hear you say that. Now go on – you're keeping her waiting."

Meg's smile faded as he left the room. Slowly, she walked towards the window, her small figure swallowed up by the encroaching darkness. The lights of Paris were blurred and distorted through the sleet-washed glass. She stared out of the window watching the cold rain, falling and falling, and did not move for a very long time.

**END OF PART I**

**(Author's note: Yes, that's only part one, I'm afraid, and also likely to be the last update this side of Christmas, thanks to an indecent amount of essays due in New Years. Also, although I know where part two is headed, in terms of structure and specifics I'm still a little hazy, so I'm going to have to plan out a few things before writing/posting any more chapters. If you're liking it this far, please leave a review, and I'll update as soon as I can.)**


	17. Unquiet Dreams and Troubled Waking

**The Mask and Mirror**

**PART II**

**Algeria, January 1882**

Chapter 17

_At first he saw only his own face; white and strained, fair hair matted, blue eyes turned almost black. Then he realised he was staring at his reflection in the sword that lay on the ground. Blood-crimson on silver. Its symmetry dazzled him. And beyond the sword lay a dark huddled shape some feet away._

_He looked up and saw Christine facing him. There was a look of serene contentment on her face, but there was something oddly immobile about it, the kind of lifeless expression found on the face of a china doll._

"_So you killed him, then?" she said, with a careless glance at the dark and motionless form._

_Raoul stared down at his hands. He hadn't been able to wash the stains out. "I didn't mean to –"_

"_Oh, it's alright," she said calmly. "I don't mind."_

"_I thought you would be angry…"_

_She smiled pleasantly. "Don't be silly. You know how much I hated him." She came forward and took hold of his hands, and the slipperiness of blood met and collided on their intertwined fingers. "Besides – it's better this way. Now we can be happy together."_

"_Yes," he heard himself say automatically. "That's all I wanted."_

_He noticed now that her hair was pulled back and threaded with jewels, dark blue, that flashed against and heightened the sapphire silk of her dress._

"_You're dressed up."_

"_Yes, dinner's at eight. You didn't forget, did you? But you'll need a change of clothes – those are all covered in blood."_

_He looked down at his shirt that hung half open, the material torn and flecked with red stains. "Yes," he said. "Yes, I suppose you're right."_

_Raoul turned to leave, but her voice halted him._

"_Wait," she said. "You dropped something."_

_His eyes fell on the object in her hand. It was a white porcelain mask, Venetian style, designed to cover half the face. She stood up on her tiptoes and held it against his face. Once more, he caught his reflection staring back at him within the steel of the sword._

"_There," Christine said brightly. "Now you wouldn't even know the difference."_

* * *

Raoul jerked awake. The room was very dark, although the curtains were made of thin material and let in far too much of the merciless Algerian sunlight during the day. Sitting up in the narrow bed and passing a hand across his eyes, he could see the uneven wooden floor was coated in the dust that seemed to be everywhere in this region. Despite the money at his disposal, the accommodation on offer had been rudimentary at best, which fitted in with his intentions to stay as inconspicuous as possible. He had fallen asleep in his shirt and breeches – gone were the former luxurious outfits with their fine trimmings and expensive tailoring. Not only would they be woefully impractical in the fierce heat, there were not enough young French noblemen in the region to allow him to pass through unnoticed. Practicality had replaced finery.

Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, he crossed the room to the narrow window and pulled aside the tattered curtain, staring out into the night. They had long left behind the port and glittering sea, and hard blue sky. They had passed through the desert, with its wide and desolate wastes that still seemed more alive than he was. Now this – Mustapha, with its vibrant foreignness and constant, ongoing, ever-changing life that passed him by like puppets on a stage – was where the trail had stopped. And it was easy to see why. Below him, the streets twisted in a labyrinthine maze, the scents of amber and spices heavy in the air. There was no moon visible, but the distant Kasbah was never dark; there was always the gleam of the white houses, the flaring coloured veils and the glitter of bangles on dancing girls. It was vivid and exotic, and it revolted him. He thought with longing of the temperate Paris, the balmy days passed on his estate, where he could go into the city and be known as he knew others, not a stranger disguised as a pauper in a pauper's land. He was no longer the Comte de Chagny. Those days already felt like a part of someone else's life. He could see his own slightly blurred reflection in the glass and rested a couple of fingers against the dusty windowpane. Questions plagued him, rendering any chance of sleep impossible.

Where was Christine? Was she all right; was she safe? Did she have a place to stay, a bed to sleep in at night? Was she perhaps restless and awake as he was, and staring out of the window into the darkness, desperately trying to seek him as he sought her?

Of course, he was not here by himself. Meg Giry and her mother were in the next room, the Persian down the corridor. Raoul knew all this and yet he felt… lonely. This was something new to him. He had never really known what it was to be alone. His parents had died too long ago for him to remember, his brother and sisters had indulged him, and he had grown up with a wide circle of friends. Throughout his life, he had never been wanted for company. Neither had he understood Christine's solitary nature and her predilection for wandering off alone. Sometimes when he looked at her, he had the sense that she was only half in this world, and her fleeting elusive spirit was somewhere far away, seeing things beyond the ken of human vision. To him, it seemed a strange thing, and unnatural. He, who had always been so grounded in the physical world and everything it offered.

But now it felt as though all those old elements of his past life were being stripped away, gradually shaping him into someone else, someone who could do the necessary things that the Vicomte de Chagny could not. Those ties that had bound him to the world were gone: first Philippe, then Christine. Now a vast sea lay between him and his home; there was nothing left to distract him or turn him from his purpose. His companions could stay or go – it made no difference as far as he was concerned. He had no time to consider them. He had never lacked the ability to connect with people or make friends, but the pain of losing Philippe – with whom he not been overly close in recent years – had been unbearable as a knife driving into flesh. And Christine, whom he _had _opened up to, offered her everything his generous nature was capable of giving… her loss had severed the last natural human impulse to connect, to _feel. _There was every chance that Erik would not hesitate in destroying those who threatened or opposed him: if anything happened to one of his companions…

No, it was better this way. Better to leave everything behind. Paris was dead.

The crossing from Marseille had not been pleasant. Raoul had done his best, considering they had been pressed for time, to secure respectable quarters for them. But the sea had been rough, and the journey had taken longer than expected. Managing to find respectable accommodation for four people, as opposed to two – which was what he had initially thought – had been difficult.

Because he had only expected himself and Nadir to be undertaking such a journey with so little hope of success. The Persian was an elderly man with few friends and no relatives, little to keep him in Paris. But Madame Giry and her daughter – surely they had their own lives to live and could trust to Raoul's commitment to return Christine to them safely? Only, after learning of his intentions, a blazing row had taken place between Meg Giry and her mother. Raoul had called round their house, only to walk in on Meg shouting furiously, and her mother having lost control in a way he could never have thought possible – stern, icy Madame Giry shrieking at her daughter in wild abandon? It was nonsense, the widow had insisted, to uproot their lives at such short notice; the construction work on the new Opera House would soon be complete, offering them work that was better paid than teaching a weekly dancing class for girls in reduced circumstances. And yet here they were. God knows how Meg had persuaded her mother, if indeed she had. Raoul did not know the full details and was, if truth be told, beyond caring. His finances were able to accommodate them and their presence might be of some use. Beyond that, he had not cared to inquire. He had spent over a month in their company and knew them no better than when they had set out.

Yet even this indifference had not made him blind. Christine's absence had changed all of them in some way. Madame Giry had not infrequently been sharp, but it was in the heat of anger or emotion. Now it was through coldness. She had locked herself away from everyone, maintaining that aloofness that repelled pity. If she suffered, she did not allow an iota of it to leak into her eyes or voice. She was a pillar of ice and resolve. Meg's warmth was still intact. So was her generosity. But something else – her humour, her impish sense of youthful playfulness had gone. And Nadir… the Persian was calm. He never spoke acerbically like Madame Giry, neither did he concentrate on everyone around him to try and forget his own feelings like Meg, but there was a terrible sadness in his eyes that was somehow worse. The man he had – for whatever reason – regarded as a friend, had disappointed him. This seemed to affect him as much as Christine's kidnapping.

Yes, they were all altered, and he himself the most changed of them all.

The eager, generous man had over the course of weeks spent in constant strain and hardship become something darker and more sombre. The flare of anger and the chill of fear had long since passed, leaving only bitterness in its wake – the worst kind of bitterness that gnawed and corroded and would not go away. A part of himself had been lost in crossing the sea, and what pale shadow of feeling might have been left had turned itself inward to an iron fist that locked itself around his heart. It formed a protection that he was grateful for, but protection came at a price. He knew his behaviour was altered, that he wasn't being particularly nice to his companions when they needed it most, but he couldn't bring himself to care. The blind obsession that had narrowed his world down to the sole purpose of finding Christine made anything else irrelevant. When he found Christine, he would make amends. But until then –

He had become the most desperate of creatures – a man living purely on his nerves. It was a dangerous combination: very little food or sleep, surviving only on adrenalin that fuelled him with a feverish energy. His eyes were very bright, his hair grown long. But he did not look wild. Heightened, yes, but the grim determination to see the thing through to the end meant he maintained a kind of deadly sanity that would carry him to Erik and the day of reckoning. His mind was fixed to a single purpose. Dreams and memories of happier times were both his lifeline and his torment.

Raoul closed his eyes; the image of the infinity of desert stretching out in his imagination. He opened the window as far as he was able and leaned out, hoping for a breath of the arid air that transcended the busy streets below and came from the wind-beaten sands of a world that was far older.

If he could only remove his heart and fling it onto the vast plains to be buried by the sands. If he could only sleep a sleep like death and know at least one moment of peaceful oblivion. If he could either banish the darkness or let it consume him, not merely dally with it in this interim where there was no white, only infinite shades of never-ending grey.

His hands tightened on the window frame.

_If there is one thing in all the world that I wish for, _he thought. _It's to go back to the way things were._ _The life we had before. _

Something sharp and cool dug into his wrist. He looked down at his pocket watch – left him by his father, and the one piece of finery he could not bring himself to leave behind. It was half an hour past midnight. Raoul pocketed the watch with a grim expression. It was time.

There was no going back.

* * *

Nadir Khan was not asleep. It was not the heat that kept him awake – on the contrary, he was far more comfortable in this environment than in Paris, which he judged to be unreasonably cold. It was a deep, gnawing fear that had taken root within him over the last few weeks and now drove him from the dry solitude of his room, to immerse himself in the energy of the Kasbah around him, and hopefully drive his own concerns away.

In some ways he had missed this: the vigour, the energy. Of course, Persia had been different. Its rich walls had been adorned with finery; its corridors and streets were incense laden in a perfumed smokescreen that concealed true intentions like gauzy veils. But in some ways it was very much the same. This wasn't Paris with its swarms of cold, lonely people and civil decorum. There was that sense of being close to people; the sweat, the noise, the physicality, the smell of a cigarette trailing in the air… all proof that he too was real and breathing, that he was alive.

Once he reached the bottom of the rickety stairs he pushed open the door of the inn – no curfew in a place like this – and stepped out into the muggy heat. This backdoor led into a darkened alleyway; it would take a twisting maze of back streets before he found himself in the Kasbah proper. He could faintly hear the sounds drifting from the distance, the hum and pulse of drums and music, the meaningless combination of many voices and clatter of wheels from a cart passing by in the next lane. Taking a deep breath, he caught the heavy combination of that unique Algerian scent: sweat and dust and amber musk. It was different to the smell of Persia: that vividly remembered deadly exoticism and perfumed fragrances. This was something more raw and primal, the living pulse of a city that never slept.

"No." A voice close by spoke suddenly, interrupting his thoughts. "Nothing until after."

Nadir opened his eyes, startled, because he _knew _that voice. Easing himself from his position in the doorway, he followed the flare of distant torch lights that cast patches of light like spilled gold on the ground. Picking his way through the alley, he passed the tattered remains of a glittery veil lying discarded on the ground. A young boy crouched in a doorway watched him with wide dark eyes as he went by. Nadir slowed down and turned the corner. He leaned forward, while being careful to remain in the shadows. Across from him, half his face lit by the one of the overhanging lamps, stood Raoul, his expression detached, but there was a thunderous look in his eyes. He was facing two men who were taking as much trouble to conceal themselves as he himself was. Nadir at first could discern nothing beyond the darkness of their cloaks, but every now and then was the telltale flash of jewellery.

The Persian swallowed hard. Men who so openly displayed gaudy flashes of wealth in a country like this were either fools or professionals who knew how to handle themselves. And considering the men had come under the cover of darkness to a place where they were unlikely to be overheard, Nadir doubted it was the first sort.

One of them spoke then, so softly; he had to move along the wall a few inches to hear. The French was heavily accented, but otherwise impeccable. "We're putting our necks on the line here. By the sound of it, this man we're tracking is –"

"Probably more dangerous than anyone you've ever encountered. Yes."

A grimy smirk, the flash of pointed teeth. "Clearly _Monsieur, _you haven't met some our acquaintances."

Raoul smiled, a cool, dangerous smile. He was standing very still, but Nadir could see the tension in every line of his body and the anger simmering just beneath the surface. "Neither do I want to. And I may as well inform you that I'm no prancing fool, so double-cross me, and it'll be the last thing you do." In a movement so fast, Nadir didn't realise what had happened until a few seconds later, he had disarmed one of the men of his knife, and cast it contemptuously across the ground. "Roundabout threats are also wasted on me. You've heard my terms. It's your decision."

"If we bring her to you –"

"You'll get your payment. I'm a man of my word; I won't play you false."

"I'd like to see him try," the man muttered to his companion.

"Oh no," said Raoul dangerously. Not once had he raised his voice. "You really wouldn't. And you're trying my patience. Do we have an agreement or not?"

A moment of silence in which Nadir could hear only his beating heart. And then –

"Agreed."

The Persian pressed himself further against the rough, heated surface of the wall as the men slipped away towards the busier streets with the practised ease of professional thieves. He waited, feeling a tightening knot of tension in his chest from what he'd just heard. He watched Raoul sigh quietly and turn around, then suddenly pause and become still as a hunting cat. Their eyes met across the dimly lit alley. Nadir was the first to speak.

"Is this really a good idea?"

"You startled me," was all Raoul said. He made to walk past Nadir, but the Persian didn't move.

"You should have told those men to leave. Whatever they approached you for –"

"They didn't approach me. I approached them. This meeting tonight was at my request."

Nadir stared. "You cannot be thinking of employing them to –"

"I already have."

"So these are the kinds of people you do business with now?"

Raoul looked sideways at him dispassionately. "I'm doing what I have to."

"They're rogues," said Nadir. "Scoundrels. They'd do anything for the highest bidder."

"Then it's a good thing I have more money than they've ever dreamed of."

"And what sort of uses do you think they'll put your money to? Opium dens, brothels, and worse besides."

"That's not my problem." Raoul's expression was calm, but his eyes were blazing. "As long as they bring Christine back they can do what they like."

"And how do you think they'll treat her? A woman of her station alone and unprotected –"

"How do you think Erik's treated her these last couple of months?" Raoul retorted in a terrible voice. He turned away, shaking his head slightly. "I don't even want to think about what might have happened to her – God, even if she's still alive. But if there's a chance – if there's the remotest chance these men can bring her back to me, then I'll pay them – yes, even if they're scoundrels."

"But if there's another way –" said the Persian, a little desperately.

"Oh, to hell with it, Nadir!" exploded Raoul, suddenly. "Look around you! This isn't Paris. Their laws aren't our laws. We've been here for nearly two months now and we've gotten nowhere. The ordinary avenues have been no use. The trail's gone cold. We're out of time, ideas – we're at the end of our resources. _This_ is our last option."

His words silenced Nadir. The young man was breathing hard, his tanned cheeks visibly flushed, despite the darkness of the alley. His blue eyes were dark and fierce, and glittered with something that might have been tears if Nadir hadn't known better. The Persian stared, his anger turning to quiet reproach. He was not yet too old to remember what it was like to be so young and so in love. If it had been his late wife…

But still…

"You should have consulted us."

"Has it occurred to you that this is the reason why I didn't?"

"I can understand not wanting to tell Madame Giry and her daughter – although you underestimate them both. But you came to me asking for _my _help. So you can't just shut me out whenever it suits you. You let me in back in Paris, and we work together in this, or not at all."

"Shutting you out… " The younger man frowned slightly. "That wasn't what I had intended. But I don't have time for a moral preacher; I want someone whom I can trust to stand by me. Things are different here. We can't just walk into a Gendarmerie and expect someone to solve our problems for us. This place doesn't work that way. It _is_ harsh; it _is _corrupt – and sometimes difficult decisions have to be made, and in the end, if you won't make them, then I'll have to."

"You forget," said Nadir grimly. "That I was a part of the Shah's court for nearly twenty years. I saw corruption on a daily basis. And I've seen what it can do to a man. No matter how good your intentions might be, it'll seep into you like poison before you know it – and it'll destroy you. You're a good man, Raoul. I think I could truly like you, if you'd only let me. I don't want to see you eaten up by this obsession."

"I appreciate your concern." Raoul smiled, but it did not reach his eyes. Nadir was chilled by the expression in them. He had seen that look before, of cold and bleak despair. It was the look of a man who had nothing left to lose. For a moment, it forcefully reminded him of someone else, and he wondered why this should be.

Raoul spoke again, very calmly and deliberately. "I appreciate your concern," he said again. "At least, I want to. But I've come too far to give up now. You still don't realise, do you? I don't care what happens to me anymore, so long as the last thing I do is bring Christine back, and see her safe and happy once more. Then I'll have done what I set out to do."

"By losing yourself in the process?"

His jaw tightened. For a second, he looked on the brink of saying something, but deliberately checked himself. His face become a smooth, impenetrable mask once again. "I've heard enough of this. Think what you like – I'm going to bed."

He turned and walked away down the alley, but when he reached the doorway and the stairs, he paused without turning around.

"Oh – and Nadir?"

"Yes?"

Raoul's voice was flat, and without affect. "Don't ever question my motives again."


	18. Primitive Instincts

**Author's Note: I know. _Long_ overdue, but finally an update just to assure you I haven't abandoned this story. I will of course be shamelessly demanding reviews in return for providing a slightly longer chapter than usual.**

* * *

**The Mask and Mirror**

_Sweet desert rose  
Each of her veils, a secret promise  
This desert flower  
No sweet perfume ever tortured me more than this_

_Sweet desert rose  
This memory of Eden haunts us all  
This desert flower  
This rare perfume, is the sweet intoxication of the Fall_

(Sting, 'Desert Rose')

_You think you know. What's to come. What you are. You haven't even begun._

(Buffy the Vampire Slayer, 'Restless')

_We live as we dream: Alone. _

(Joseph Conrad, 'Heart of Darkness')

Chapter 18

The desert.

She saw it in her dreams, night after night.

_It was always the same: barren and lifeless. Rocks, empty space, the sky jagged blue glass. The ground was burning the soles of her bare feet. Christine wandered slowly, with no clear idea where she was going. She had the vague sense that she had been looking for something, but with miles of nothing but desert stretching out behind her, could not imagine what it might have been._

_Still she travelled onward, through stifling air and restlessness. Too hot was the soul of the arid desert._

_Initially, it seemed only to be her own pulse, throbbing with a primal, restless beat, but it was coming from within the earth, passing through her body that responded to the insistent call. The desert was silent no longer and she wondered how she could ever have thought it so. And the song, deep and resonant and raw with emotion: it was the land given voice and she obeyed its insistent summons. _

_At first she thought it a mirage, dancing and shimmering in the heat, a vague, indistinct blur. And out of the still sands rose the ruins of a thousand years ago, and her dream-self approached the long-abandoned walls with quiet reverence and deep awe._

_The place was old. Timelessly old. She walked among the ruins and ran her fingers along the rough, ancient stone, feeling the heat rising from the cracked walls and the hard ground beneath her feet._

_She had thought herself alone but the backs of her arms suddenly prickled sharply and she turned instinctively. Too late, she caught only the fleeting glimpse of a dark cloak disappearing around a corner, but she knew now to whom the voice belonged. Still, it compelled her to follow, its newly sinister notes of dark suggestion pulling her sinuously like a snake to its charmer. She took a step forward to follow him – _

_Then a sudden blast of chill wind swept through the walls, the current of air damp and cloying. Christine glanced down. She was ankle-deep in water, lambent green and dank, seeping through the thin hem of her gown. She was far beneath the surface of the earth, the tunnels under the Opera House, and still the music called her on, drawing her, binding her._

_Hell is coming._

_Erik turned to face her and the conflicting sides of his face seared onto her retinas in two distinct halves: the one noble and soulful and filled with indescribable yearning, the other fierce and furious, twisted with a primitive savagery. He held out his hands and drew her towards him – _

The dream shifted.

_She saw two figures embracing under a desert sun, one of them herself, and the other – _

_Then she was standing immobilised on the hard earth, as he lay stretched out on bloodied sand, unsheltered by the vast ruins that had vanished back into the earth. She wanted to call out, run to him, but the way was somehow barred. Blood seeped onto the sand; the mockery of vivid-crimson flowers blooming in the desolate wilderness. His eyes opened and they burned her like blackened suns._

_Hell is coming._

Christine sat bolt upright in bed, her heart pounding furiously with fear and an odd, bitter yearning.

* * *

Nearly two months ago, Erik stood on the edge of the world, hardly breathing.

The heat rose off the baked earth in a solid wave. In the distance, objects seemed to shimmer. He squinted slightly against the stretch of glittering white sand. It seemed dismally appropriate of his view of the world being a desolate, bleak and forbidding place. He stared at the silent wilderness, stretching out for miles. It seemed that something great and inexorable was waiting out there to be discovered, that would reveal itself to him. Or consume him whole.

It seemed the world could be remade, charred into dust and forged anew. Empires had fallen, risen, and fallen again. If only human caprice could be so easily eradicated and undone. But man's essential nature had always been the same.

In the Opera Populaire, he had been puppet master and god, king of a vast underground domain. Feared and despised he might have been, but certainly not insignificant. But _here… _it was easy to lose his sense of self in this great vastness. He could almost scatter his memories to the wind. Could he find a new existence, a new life here to start from the ground up? Or had he merely traded one infernal world for another? The hell he carried within him was an internal one that had pursued him over the four corners of the earth. Why should he hope to find it any different here? The disconnect between himself and his higher nature had become too great to alter. He was marked, just as surely as Cain, burdened by the same vice of murderous jealousy. And he too was doomed to wander the earth, ever restless and brooding, unable to find peace.

"_They wandered in the wilderness in a solitary way. Thirsty, their souls fainted in them_."

He turned to Christine. "What was that?"

"It's from the _Psalms. _The verse just came to mind."

Her voice was absent. He saw her staring in terror and wonder at the isolation of it, the grandeur. Terrible, yes, but primal and powerful, and also palpably mysterious. How small and woefully insignificant Paris must seem to her now! The gaudy extravagance and architecture she had once found so imposing would crumble into ash while this wilderness had stood thousands of years before, and would stand thousands longer.

Together, they stood under the hard, bright, violent sun, neither moving nor speaking. Christine shook her head slowly, seemingly unable to draw her eyes away from the view around her. "Why would anyone come to a place like this?"

"What do you think?"

"To find a meaning in life, perhaps."

"Or to end it, finally."

Erik's voice was as flat and lifeless as the surrounding wilderness. He could taste dust and grit and copper in his dry mouth. Or perhaps it was bitterness. There was a hollow sound in his ears, the likes of which he had never heard before. Even the slightest breeze raised clouds of dust. He could imagine the violence of the burning wind, whipped into ferocious sandstorms that could strip a man to nothing but bone, buried forever in an unmarked grave. Perhaps he, too, would meet his end in this place, waiting abandoned for a slow death, driven mad by thirst and exposed to the burning sun without shelter or hope. The world was a cruel place, but unlike people, at least nature was honest about it.

"Do you ever think…?" He paused.

"Think what?"

"That you are my death and I am yours."

"Sometimes," she admitted.

Erik swallowed hard, looking sidelong at her. She had lost weight due to sea-sickness on their crossing from Marseilles. Even the gauzy shawl that covered her shoulders was insufficient to conceal how visible her bones were and the fragility of her frame. Her hair had come loose in the wind and blew in dark tendrils around her face. With her porcelain skin and delicate figure, she was not made for the harsh extremes of climate. He wondered if he had been wrong in bringing her here. But he had wanted to come somewhere new, seeking endlessly, hoping to find –

"You never stop searching for it."

He realised he had spoken aloud when Christine turned to him, her eyes serious and inquiring.

"For what?"

"To find something to hold on to… to feel less alone."

"Then…" she frowned.

"What is it?"

"I thought coming here was to start a new life, to earn forgiveness and learn to live among society, but you bring me here… to the most lonely place in the world."

He shuddered. Christine didn't know – really know – what true loneliness was. God forbid that she ever find out. He kept his voice deliberately cool. "We're still only at the outskirts. When we get further inland you won't be able to move for the buildings and markets."

He had been right.

Christine was used to the city life of Paris, but even at its busiest there was a sense of cool detachment, refinery and always the awareness that you were among civilised and enlightened nineteenth-century society.

No such decorum here.

Mustapha was beyond anything she had ever seen or imagined. She was pushed and jostled from all sides, were it not for Erik's firm hold on her, she would have been hopelessly swept away. People shouted across her, trod on her feet, pushed things into her hands and then loudly demanded payment. Tradesmen, children, dancers, whores, rogues, fools and livestock passed in rapid succession before her awestruck eyes. Life in all its multi-layered, earthy vitality, fast and fierce with its passions and pains and own sense of importance.

She could feel Erik's heavy presence as he stood behind her; his large brown hands tightened slightly on her shoulders to prevent the crowd from separating them. "Breathe in," he murmured in her ear. "Can you smell it?"

She did; and was overwhelmed by an exotic and heady combination of scents and sensations. Dust and sand, the sweat of hard labour and the hot hide and leather of beasts. More intoxicating still, the rich aroma of spices: turmeric and saffron. The pounding of drums and blood and gabbling voices speaking languages from all over the world. It set her pulses beating in low, strange anticipation for – for what?

She looked across at Erik to see if he felt as she did, but to her surprise, saw the living half of his face twisted in an expression of derisive scorn that was almost a grimace.

"Look at it," he said, harshly. "This is what you wanted. Taste it, smell it. This horrible world. And yet…" he murmured as an afterthought, almost to himself. "I could almost envy them."

"Why?"

"For living. Christine, you do not realise how much the dead envy the living, just for being alive."

Alive. Yes, this place was certainly alive, with its atmosphere of excess and abandon. Everything here was so strange – the heat, the buildings, even the people: dark skinned, with wide dark eyes, shawls pulled over their heads against the burning sun. Erik, heavily cloaked and hooded was passed by without so much as a glance. His striking white porcelain mask would later be replaced by a soft black fabric one when he went outdoors, which covered most of his face, serving also as a barrier against the dust and insects.

The white buildings reflected the harsh sunlight, forcing her to look away. The streets were crowded with people, women and children pressing around them. Erik had advised her to cover her face; when they had arrived in the crowded market, a man had come up to her and stroked her white cheek with a calloused hand, gesticulating excitedly. Erik had stepped in front of him with a warning snarl. After that, Christine always kept a black-fringed shawl over her face when she went out. She knew from many a summer at Perros that her skin would never tan.

Erik, however, was no longer the drear and macabre figure dressed in the sombre attire he had worn in Paris. Something – the heat, the earthiness, the energy – had invigorated him, added new mobility and strength to his body, his wide shoulders, the fluid way he moved. The exposed skin that was already tanned had become so dark it was almost swarthy. Beneath the mask, his dark eyes were both quick and savage. He looked so real, so vividly alive, that Christine wondered how he could ever have called himself a ghost.

* * *

Erik had awoken in a foul mood. He was having trouble with a particular composition he had been working on for the last three weeks, had been informed that the house he had recently purchased was still being furnished and unfit for habitation for another week, and worst of all, he knew that the Vicomte de Chagny was still in Algeria.

Erik glowered and slammed his coffee cup down so violently it cracked the saucer. The man had been on his trail like a bloodhound ever since they had left Paris. Despite various detours and his best efforts to remain hidden (after so many years, he had become rather proficient at it) still Raoul continued to pursue him unremittingly. He couldn't help but grudgingly admire the Vicomte's persistence. It had been a long time since his cunning and ingenuity had been so tested. That was the reason why they were staying in a small lodging house in the very busiest centre of the town, for where else could they be so well concealed?

However, his fervent wish to use his ample funds to buy a house that would be their own self-contained paradise and to surround Christine with beautiful things had eventually won out over his more practical regard for caution.

Of course, Christine had no idea that her former lover was doing everything in his power to find her. Erik had not deemed it necessary to share that particular piece of information with her.

Christine. His soul and sin. Erik could not clearly remember when his feelings for her had turned from a mere teacher-pupil relationship to an obsession. All he knew was that, even now, the longing burned liked hellfire. He wanted to possess her. He was possessed _by _her. The months he had spent wandering in the aftermath of the Opera fire had done nothing to quench his desire for her. In fact, time had only augmented it. He admired the new strength she seemed to have acquired, her refusal to let him intimidate her in his more overbearing moods, and her unflinching willingness to acknowledge the darker aspects of his soul instead of denying them with a child's stubbornness. Yes, she had had a taste of darkness now, he had seen to that. But instead of letting it consume her or leave her broken and despairing, she had drawn strength from it, being able to see the light that stood in opposition all the more clearly. If only he could one day have such hope and belief in life.

But the truth was, a gnawing, constant dissatisfaction had taken a hold of him that would not go away. He had succeeded in bringing her here, he had achieved what he wanted, so why could he not be happy?

He knew why.

It wasn't enough. Having her beside him day by day only made him more aware of the emotional distance between them, having her so tauntingly close, yet so very far away. She rarely spoke of Raoul – the subject was one that never failed to incite him – but her very reticence convinced Erik that she clung to his memory as firmly as ever. He did not dare think how she would respond if she found out he was nearby. Erik had been unable to pinpoint the Vicomte's exact location – Raoul at least had the sense to remain well hidden. Probably knew that an undue 'accident' might befall him should Erik discover his whereabouts.

Yes, the Vicomte had better take care not to cross his path!

He was not yet willing to entirely divest of the Phantom's garb should the boy dare presume to up the stakes in this deadly game of cat and mouse. For the moment, Erik was willing to remain in obscurity while Christine was ignorant of her fiancée's presence. But should Raoul discover her whereabouts and attempt to communicate with her, then Erik would not hesitate to meet him for a final, dramatic confrontation.

The masked man smiled grimly.

_Sleep easy for now, de Chagny. Think yourself unnoticed. Go about your ferreting and amateur detective-work, and believe you have covered your tracks sufficiently. But you are playing with fire._

_And those who play with fire always get burned._

* * *

After her restless and unsettled night, Christine rose late, her body feeling dull and lethargic. The sun was blazing in stripes between the wooden slats covering the windows, and the noise from outside told her the business of the day was already well advanced. She glanced in the mirror over the washstand and dragged a brush through her unruly curls. After an unsuccessful attempt to pinch colour into her cheeks, she reminded herself that there was no reason for her to be worrying about what she looked like, and made her way downstairs. She knew Erik would be already waiting for her. Even on those rare mornings when she got up at an hour she considered ridiculously early, he would be calmly seated at the breakfast table and inquire what had taken her so long. He never came and knocked on her bedroom door. He recognised the room as her private sanctuary, but it would take more than wooden walls and a door to secure herself against his influence.

Erik, the Living Corpse, the Opera Ghost, the Phantom, her dark angel of many names. The man she needed yet rejected, strove to redeem yet ultimately fled from. Was he her salvation or destruction? As a child she had thought the former. As a young woman, the latter. Now she was no longer so certain. Even after two months, she was still struggling to understand the unique and conflicted relationship they had.

She had come to know his personality and habits in ways she never imagined knowing any man who wasn't her husband. She knew he rose early and retired late. She knew he was an intensely solitary person, and more than anything valued quiet and space to let his creativity flourish. Sometimes he would shut himself away for hours on end, then at others, he would be perfectly happy to sit and talk with her long into the evening. He could converse knowledgably and fluently on any subject, and Christine felt keenly that were it not for a defect of nature, he would not be out of place among the most brilliant politicians of the age. However, he was also overly defensive, highly-strung and quick to take offence at the slightest remark. Christine thought it fortunate she was generally a patient person, as it diffused many a situation that had the potential to lead to an argument.

She also knew the subtle signs that indicated a change of mood: the rare twist to his mouth that revealed ironic amusement, the tiny lines that appeared either side of his brows when an idea absorbed all his concentration, the flash of brilliance in his eyes when he was moved by things of beauty, and the way he would sigh as though it satisfied some deep craving in him, even if it was only momentary. And, of course, the way he looked at her, as though –

No. She would not think of that. After all, since she had come away with him, he had never touched her or made any physical advances against her will, for which she was sincerely grateful. Although, even in her inexperience, she could infer – by the desire he could never fully conceal in his eyes, the way the pulse hammered in his throat when they were in close proximity and the shudder that would pass through him if she unconsciously brushed against him – just how much such restraint was costing him.

Christine braced herself and pushed open the door to the breakfast room.

He was seated at the table, and she knew he was aware of her presence even though he did not look up. He seemed to have preternaturally heightened senses: his body would tense, feline-like, piercing eyes appearing to read her deepest, darkest secrets. At the moment, he looked so forbidding that Christine was reluctant to disturb him although he must have heard her enter. She was gradually coming to be less offended by his caprices or frighteningly rapid mood swings. Although their encounters were always intense, often his bad moods had nothing to do with her, and at such times, she either tried to be as considerate as possible, or keep out of his way.

"Good morning."

Then he did look up. She wondered what it was about his intense look that turned her hot and cold all at once. It almost made her back away. Almost. However, he merely acknowledged her with a curt nod before returning to his coffee. Christine sat down and poured herself a cup, resigning herself to a quiet breakfast with a feeling of relief. Being a slow riser, she hated having to appear cheerful and engage in lively conversation first thing in the morning. There were advantages to be had from Erik's complete disregard for social niceties.

"Your saucer is broken," she pointed out, after several minutes of silence.

"Faulty china," he said briefly.

He looked at her closely then, the stern expression on his face immediately replaced by one of concern.

"Are you alright?"

She shrugged. "I didn't sleep well."

"What is it? Is the room not comfortable? Tell me."

"The room is fine." His intense scrutiny was a little unnerving. Did she really look so tired?

"I can always make you something to help you sleep."

"No – it's – I'm just dreaming a lot, is all."

A gleam of curiosity appeared in his eyes. "About anything in particular?"

Christine hesitated. "I don't remember."

"I know this place isn't ideal, but the lodgings are only temporary," he said brusquely. "We should be moving out shortly."

"Assuming I am still –" Christine caught herself before she could complete the utterance, but Erik's eyes flashed, as he knew what she had been on the verge of saying.

"Assuming you are still with me, you mean? Or do you believe I will be _cured _by then? That thirty years of darkness and hunger and rage will have been purged from my soul and I'll be ready to walk among the good and righteous?"

It sounded so ridiculously unfeasible when put in such a way, and Christine was suddenly furious at him for trivialising what she saw as so vitally important, the fact that she was only here doing this to help him. She pushed her chair back and stood up. Her voice, when she found it, was high and thin. "If you won't even _try –_"

He got up quickly, so quickly she barely realised it until he was standing right over her, looking down into her face intently. She caught his scent, dark and spicy and overpowering. It was somehow very _masculine_, and she was suddenly hyper-aware of her body in proximity to his. Erik's voice was low and she felt his breath, hot against her ear.

"Why are you really here, Christine?"

"You know why," she said. "I want to help you – help you learn to lead a virtuous life."

He gave a savagely satirical laugh, deep in his throat. "Really? You were prepared to travel across continents just for that?"

"I feel responsible."

Christine stared at the floor as she said this, but she still felt the old pull of his voice: beautiful, hypnotic, deadly.

"Why am I not convinced?"

She looked up and met him with the hard, honest truth. "That's your problem, not mine."

His raised hand paused a hairs' breadth from her face, but she could imagine she felt it brush against her skin – a light, scorching touch. She tried not to look at the expression in his eyes, dark, erotic and strangely secretive. Christine held herself deliberately rigid. She had thought she was past this.

"Or were you hoping that if you cooperated, I would let you go? Is that what this is?"

"Yes," she stammered. "I mean – no – Erik, don't."

"Don't what?"

"Don't make it sound as though I want to deceive you."

"It sounds to me as though you don't know what you want." That intense look in his eyes had begun to express itself in his low voice.

"I want you to move on with your life."

His hand fell away as his expression hardened. "I'm not sure I'm willing to do that."

"You cannot keep me here forever, Erik."

"Is that so? If I were to let you leave now – to walk out that door and return to Paris, to be that pale and sick little angel again, would you go?"

His face was lit with love and rage, and when he saw she didn't move, he gave a slow, triumphant smile. "You can't. You don't trust me enough to leave. You never know when I might lash out… say something, do something. Who might get hurt."

His words filled her with foreboding, more so, because she knew he would not hesitate to carry out what he threatened. She had seen what he was capable of. He was being openly, shamelessly manipulative and she knew it should bother her more than it did. Christine pressed her palms against her forehead, feeling the pulse beating in her temples. She needed to think. She needed to be alone.

Past images flashed through her brain. Carlotta's humiliation, Joseph Bucquet dangling from a rope's end, Raoul tied to the portcullis, a rope around his neck… But no. She couldn't. Thinking of Raoul was too painful. She could sense Erik standing very close by and she didn't want to think about that either.

Christine shuddered as she pictured her strange, fierce, defiant Phantom and wondered if he really was any different from the masked murderer who had snatched her from the Parisian streets all those months ago. That darkness was a part of him, and she knew that it would never entirely leave him. Perhaps this had been a mistake, agreeing to come with Erik, giving him hope where there was no hope. Was he really seeking redemption, or had he just said what he thought she wanted to hear? She had never before known a man whose spirit was so wild and unrestrainable; was there ever any chance of her hoping to redeem him? Or would he go on, day after day, year after year, descending ever deeper into darkness and pulling her along with him? Christine closed her eyes and imagined herself in _Don Juan _once more, falling down and down through rings of fire, the all-consuming heat within his arms and the plush embrace of his voice.

The worst of it was that she could remember what it was like to be so deliciously lost in her own senses, every part of her being alive, every rational thought a million miles away.

"Christine." His voice brushed against those dark places in her mind she had no wish to revisit. "You haven't answered me."

"I have to go," she said quickly, turning to leave the room.

"Go where?" he demanded. "You haven't eaten anything."

"I'm not hungry. I – I need to change. I'll be down a little later."

To her relief, he did not attempt to stop her, only frowned slightly. Christine walked out of the room with as much calmness as she could manage, and felt his eyes on her all the way up the stairs.


	19. The Market Place

**Author's Note: Review, review, review.**

**

* * *

The Mask and Mirror**

_Like fire  
Hellfire  
This fire in my skin  
This burning  
Desire  
Is turning me to sin_

(The Hunchback of Notre Dame, 'Hellfire')

Chapter 19

It was a Thursday when they went to the market.

The morning sun was already white-hot and intense, glaring off the houses and dusty streets. Erik had finally succumbed to the searing heat and ventured out of doors without a cloak, wearing only a loose-fitting shirt and breeches. A dagger was displayed prominently on his belt should anyone be foolish enough to venture for his purse. However, had he but known it, such a precaution was scarcely necessary. There was hard, savage, dangerous quality to him that resisted approach.

Erik inhaled deeply, now familiar with the raw, earthy smell of Alger. It stirred his blood, caused his pulse to beat with a new, thrilling energy. He had no native land, no home country, but something instinctive and primal drew him here again and again. Perhaps because the vivid energy and endless bustle made him feel fleetingly that he was actually a part of humanity. Different from the sensual, deathly lethargy of Persia, where perfume reigned in the voluptuous air and flowers bloomed spiked petals of beautiful precision. Different from Paris, with its Gothic heights and abyssal depths. _Dei sub numine viget._

Mustapha was simpler. Humanity lived in its rawest sense, obeying only those basic wants of food and money and sex. No political intrigue or power-grasping here. No society etiquette or the fear of God striking into these untutored hearts. These men were not tortured with the pangs of guilt and self-loathing, or torn by the ravages of lust.

He was electrically aware of Christine next to him, drawing in a quick breath each time the voluminous material of her cloak happened to slide across his arm like dark water. Even the dark, spicy and mysterious smell of the market could not hide the scent of her hair that would tantalise him whenever she moved her head, could not prevent him from imagining his hands entwined in those curls and drawing her towards him...

Erik wondered if she could smell the desire on his skin.

It would appear not; she seemed less apprehensive than she had been on their first visit; asking a thousand and one questions, her eyes eagerly drinking in the exotic sights in a mixture of disbelief and fascinated awe. Erik had seen too much of the world to be surprised by anything.

But still.

Something about this place struck him, made it different. Not the heat. He had experienced enough of that, God knew. Not the mass of people pressing around them. He had seen that before, too. Crowds gathering to witness a living corpse in a Siberian tent. An angry mob with eyes and teeth and hands like claws. No, it definitely wasn't the multitude that was new to him. It was something else. Something indefinable.

Perhaps it was the passion.

Erik knew well the power of passion, the things it could drive one to. It was the flame, the core of him. The one thing that could both consume and be consumed. Passion was the shape of a slender girl with large, soulful eyes and whose song was the sound of sorrow given voice.

He could not help but wonder whether her voice could have reached such transcendent heights of heartrending beauty had he not hurt her so deeply.

Erik's jaw clenched as a sudden, piercing longing overcame him. He missed their lessons with a painful, yearning intensity that seared his soul and refused to go away. His fingers curled into tight fists as he struggled a breath, then another to his constricted lungs. There was no use in harbouring false hopes or pining over long-dead memories. He would simply have to believe and accept that those days were gone. She would no longer sing for him. He swallowed hard, dry-eyed and unmoving.

He must look only to the present.

"Stay close to me," he cautioned in a low voice. He noted with relief that he sounded steady, himself again. He reached out a hand to lay on her arm in affirmation of his words, but checked himself at the last moment, afraid of her flinching from him. Erik's face darkened as he pressed his sensual mouth into a harsh line. This constant need for restraint was becoming an increasing source of frustration for him. If she only knew how much she ravaged his soul.

Christine watched him not-quite touch her. There was a mesmerising, hypnotic power in those dark eyes that she felt would burn her if she came too close. The atmosphere between them electrified, but he deliberately looked away, hiding as always behind that layer of fabric. She sighed, and wondered how it was that she could inspire his most refined and high-souled genius and at the same time be responsible for his most physical and primitive impulses.

When she looked up, she saw that Erik had begun bartering with one of the stall owners over the price of fruit and looked as though he was going to be occupied for some time. Christine waited a little to one side, coughing slightly at the heavy and overwhelming dust-and-amber smell that was Mustapha. It was hard to breathe when the market was this busy, pressed in by so many people, the meaningless noise of foreign voices surrounding her. She couldn't hear herself think. The market normally held a kind of alien fascination fpr her, but both hot and tired; she found it too oppressive and she felt herself wanting to escape if only for a few minutes. With a last glance towards Erik who was still in the furious spirit of haggling (something she had never been quite courageous enough to try for herself yet), Christine pushed away from the fruit stall and began to weave her way through the busy town of Alger.

She was more confident of the market now, not so paralysed by the sheer noise and volume of the crowds. She was also learning that Parisian manners were not recognised here. People would not be insulted if she pushed past them, or shouted with emphatic hand gestures for them to move aside. It was strangely liberating, in fact, to act as these earthy, vivid Arabs did without fear of censure or ridicule. It made her feel wonderfully alive, and she felt a sudden surge of feeling that was almost affection for these strangers who did not seem strangers because of their very closeness and vivacity. She was already beginning to feel better now she was able to move around and explore as she wished rather than merely standing around in the searing heat, feeling she was an obstruction and a burden.

She wandered on through the labyrinthine alleys, passing several stalls. Brightly coloured silks and rugs hanging from a shelter with a woman beating the dust from them, rows of jugs and pots of brass, baskets of fruit, the over-ripe smell pungent and overpowering. Turning, she passed into a little side street where the noise and rabble was less overwhelming. She could still hear the drumbeat and music of the Kasbah in the distance threading its way through the hazy air. Christine hurried onward, keeping her head down, aware of men hovering around her, and still unnerved by the hands that would sometimes reach out and touch the material of her cloak or attempt to stroke her abundant curls. The action was just so… uncultured.

Yes, for all her fascination with Alger, Christine was still a girl of Paris, a girl of the city where men lifted their hats to respectable women and the ladies were delicate and modest and compliant, not half-naked Salomes who danced among shadows and did things for payment that were not discussed in polite Parisian society.

She continued to walk on when the sight of several mirrors laid out on one of the open stalls made her pause. She approached slowly. The owner perceived her interest at once, and began talking rapidly, but Christine merely frowned, thinking. She remembered asking Erik what had happened to the mirrors in his house beneath the Opera.

_I destroyed them. I felt if _you _could not find beauty in me, than nothing could._

Piercing guilt speared through her swollen heart, although she tried to tell herself it was unfounded. The vivid memory of Erik's face as he had said those bitter words made her cringe. There had been something not _right _about it, as though it had just… broken. So broken it couldn't be put back together. Like shattered glass. Fragmented.

Christine reached out and picked up one of the gilt framed mirrors, gazing at it ponderingly. Its surface was clouded with a layer of dust that she blew at to dispel and it dispersed around her in faint clouds. Her own serious brown orbs looked back up at her with a determined resolution. Perhaps it was time to right those wrongs. This was the cross that she had taken upon herself to bear, even though no one expected or demanded it of her. But it had never been about what others thought. It had been about doing what was right. What _had _to be done, because – because –

She searched furiously for the reason why this meant so much to her, so much that she was sacrificing moths, perhaps years of a marriage to Raoul whom she loved more than anything in this world. She loved Raoul deeply, desperately. Christine's fingers tightened on the edges of the mirror, the sharp corners pricking the tender skin of her hands, lacerations, a painful reminder of what she had left behind. Left behind for Erik.

At times like this, she could understand Raoul's jealousy.

Even she did not fully understand this precarious standing between herself and Erik. They were not friends, nor enemies, nor even lovers. But they were… something.

_He has a hold over me, _she thought, sombrely. _And he knows it._

Her heart felt as though it was being pulled in two directions, inch by slow and painful inch. How long could she go on like this before one end would snap like a severed cord? The human heart was not made to be torn so cruelly. How could anyone stand to live like this?

If ever anyone had the proverbial angel and devil hovering over each shoulder, it was her.

Christine frowned in wearisome confusion, the same futile questions prodding at her suddenly painful temples. What was it that drew her to Erik again and again? The answer was buried away in one of the darker corners of her mind, unwittingly surfacing to face the harsh light of day.

He was her shadow self. Her repressed desires and impulses she would never admit to having in the light of day. So very different from her idealised, heroic Raoul, whose ardent love shone from his beautiful blue eyes, promising a world of light and happiness. She blinked back the sudden moisture that blurred her vision. A better world. No pain. No conflict.

Then she thought of Erik: brilliant, brooding Erik who was intense as dark fire, almost a force of nature. Trying to tame him was like trying to hold a tiger by the tail. She tried to picture his face clearly, but could visualise only an idea of the whole, rather than any distinctive features. The lasting impression was like that of a volcano on the brink of eruption, something expectant slumbering and smouldering beneath the surface that was hinted at in the interplay of his expressive features. There was nothing still or calm in Erik's face; it was one made up of mobile flame and shadow, an outer shell for a soul as incendiary as a keg of gunpowder. Even his moments of quiet were deceptively still waters; it was often in his softest tones that he said the cruellest, most cutting things with a shrewd smile and a sardonic glimmer in his eyes.

And the _other – _the demon pressing against the disfigured side of his face – what did she think of that?

It fascinated her. With an odd attraction-repulsion, it awed her. Sometimes, it seemed that if he would only remove the mask and allow her to examine the intricate scars and jagged flesh that formed a distorted maze across his face, that she would be able to understand the inscrutable mind of this man, as examining the interior mechanics of a clock reveals its complex workings. After all, that was the side of his face that had shaped who he was, had driven him to his darkest and most desperate recourses, was the side that she was striving so earnestly to _save… _and it was the side he would never let her fully see.

No longer an angel. No longer a demon. That was what she earnestly believed, what she needed to show him. After all, if he could not bear to look at himself, how could anybody else?

But still a part of her hesitated. Would he understand the feeling behind the gesture, or merely cast it in her face as yet another perceived insult?

The market stall owner's sudden and intrusive questioning forced her to make up her mind quickly. The woman asked for three sous, and looked utterly astounded when Christine paid the amount without even attempting to barter the price.

It had occurred to her that she needed to get back to Erik, and she could only hope he was where she had left him. She did not now relish the idea of trying to navigate the crowded market in an attempt to find him. There were a hundred streets and alleys and boulvards mazing through the town of Alger, and beyond, hills and tall trees opening out onto villages and a wilderness beyond. This was not the place to get lost in. Exploring these unfamiliar regions with Erik was one thing, but _alone_... It then struck her as rather ironic that she should feel safer in Erik's company than without. She wondered if he would even notice she had been gone –

Christine's thoughts were broken off by a hand wrapping itself around her mouth, and, with a muffled scream, she was dragged into one of the darkest recesses of the alley.

* * *

Erik had long since left the fruit stall, scanning the busy market place for any signs of Christine. He had told her keep close by him, and this wandering off worried him a little. By no means did he want to keep her a prisoner, or make her feel like one, but Alger was hardly the safest place for an innocent ingénue to be left alone in.

He turned deliberately into a narrow and deserted side street, walking with a measured pace. A dark _something_ that wasn't a shadow continued to move behind him. Erik then made his move. He spun round, his body taut and humming as though in combat, fingers curling around the hilt of his knife. Facing him, too startled by the abrupt action to move, was a whip-thin man, dark face closed like a fist, although the eyes flickered to his mask with that familiar look of curiosity and fear. Erik observed the inconspicuous dark clothing, the serpentine grace, the high quality leather boots that nobody in this region could afford through legitimate means. The stranger in the meantime had recovered his equanimity and attempted to walk on as though he were merely passing by, but Erik swiftly moved in front of him, blocking his access.

"You have been following me for the last twenty minutes," he said coldly.

The stranger didn't miss a beat. His heavily accented French was smoothly offhand, nonchalant. "You are mistaken. I –"

"Don't insult me," snarled Erik, not fooled for a moment. His hooded eyes followed the man's hand that was moving slowly towards a concealed poniard. "Who sent you?"

"Sent? I don't know what you –"

In an explosion of sudden movement, Erik slammed him hard against the wall, an arm across the man's throat, aware of a grim sense of satisfaction when the slanting, scornful eyes became clouded with slight fear. Something savage and primal rose in the masked man's blood. He had done this many times; relished the way in which he could reduce proud and derisive men into quivering wrecks of their former selves. Old habits died hard. His mouth curved. It had been long - too long - since he had had power over anything. Anyone. But how slowly he forgot.

"Who sent you?" he repeated.

The man remained stonily silent. Erik used his arm to begin applying pressure to the stranger's windpipe, knowing just how much force to exert before the man's instinct for self-preservation kicked in.

"He never gave his name –"

Erik's breath hissed between his teeth. "Are you quite certain of that?"

"Yes! He never said –"

In a movement of slow deliberation, Erik used his other hand to leisurely remove the knife from his belt and slide it in a murderous caress along the rogue's face. Steel on flesh. A brief reflection of swarthy skin and murderous dark eyes narrowed in exultant savagery. The reflection of someone he had not seen in a long, long time. "Fortunately for you, I know the man. Now tell me, who is he travelling with?"

"I don't know –"

The knife pressed in a little deeper. The surrounding skin had turned chalk white. The temptation to map out the flesh with violence appealed to one of the darker recesses of Erik's artistic mind that was not buried so deeply as he had wished to believe. He was still very capable of carving a disfigurement on this man's face to rival his own. And perhaps he would, if this man did not prove to be a little more forthcoming.

"It's been a long time since I last killed a man," he said, musingly. "So this may take a while." He noted with a detached eye the beads of perspiration that were forming on the stranger's brow.

"I haven't seen them –" The man's voice was now a whole octave higher than it should have been.

Erik's hold tightened, the knife pressing into skin. A droplet of blood welled from the slightly lacerated flesh, a thin rivulet coursing down the taut jawline that was strained with fear. A part of him, newly awakened, was cautioning him to pull back while he still could, but Erik ignored it. Better to be damned in fire than choked by indifference. "_Them?_"

"Two women…"

The man looked as though he was losing consciousness. Erik shook him hard. "_Who else?"_

The rogue was gabbling wildly, rendered almost incoherent by real terror. "I don't know! A gentleman – older – Oriental –"

Erik's hold on the man slackened as he staggered backwards in disbelief. "_Nadir,_" he whispered.

The man doubled over in pain, clutching at his throat as he gasped down mouthfuls of the hot, dry Algerian air. "I didn't catch his name – please –"

Erik leaned back heavily against the doorway. The distant noise of the market had become a meaningless howl of white noise, punctuated by short bursts of lucid sound. Something sharp and jagged seemed to be slicing through the tattered remains of his heart.

_No. It – it can't be him – it isn't him…_

Overwhelming misery filled him like blood welling from an open cut. He clenched his jaw, fighting hard to keep the struggling tears from rising to the surface. Violent shudders wracked his heavy frame, as though his soul was trying to shake off the fetters of flesh and bone that bound it in its torturous prison. He closed his eyes, maddened to despair, distraction.

He had thought Nadir was –

Different. Cast in another mould. Possessed of a nobility for other men to aspire to. He had _trusted_ him, cautiously, fleetingly. It had given him something. Filled the cancerous, rotting void of his heart with an ember, a flicker. But he had learned that lesson the hard way, he should have known by now –

Everybody betrayed you.

Then vengeance, white-hot and consuming, leapt within him.

Anger.

Dulled the edges of pain. He clung to it, needing that purpose, that clarity. Erik's hold on the knife tightened, the flash of silver brilliant in the burning sunlight. The man was staring at him, newly reawakened fear flickering in his eyes, not knowing what the terrifying masked man would do next, what he would _dare _to do next –

Erik's mind was scorched. His intent was blazoned across his brain as though by a branding iron. He had come too far to stop now. The knife slid against the perspiration on his palm as he lifted the blade with a steady hand, pausing several inches from the rogue's marked face.

He was already sliding towards the brink of Hell. One tiny push would send him hurtling over the edge.

_What would Christine think, if she saw you now?_

That unexepected inner voice halted him. Erik wavered a moment, agonised with indecision. When he finally spoke, his voice was hoarse with rage and despair. "Take a message to your… _employer… _the Vicomte de Chagny."

Slowly, the man nodded.

"Tell him that if he values his life –" Erik suddenly paused and smiled unpleasantly. "Actually, I think your face sums it up rather nicely, don't you?"

The rogue stared at him, finally, daring to speak. "You're not going to kill us?"

A slight tremor passed through the hand holding the knife. Erik's voice lost some of its silken surety.

"Us?"

The stranger smiled, suddenly sly, the confidence of old returning to his expression as he sensed the balance of power subtly shift between them. "You didn't think I came alone, did you?"

"Christine –" Erik said hoarsely.

He turned and ran.

* * *

Primal terror slammed into her ribs. Christine screamed again into the hand pressed against her mouth. She struggled frantically, unable to see her assailant, only aware of harsh breathing, darkness, and the icy claws of panic gripping her stomach.

"Stop _struggling,_" a voice hissed into her ear, low and sibilant, and a sickening wave of faintness overcame her.

"My purse –" The words tumbled out of her in a rush of blind panic. "In my belt – take it – take anything –"

The hand was over her mouth once more, cutting off her desperate entreaties. "I didn't come for your money." The man continued to propel her down the deserted alley with an inexorable force, the hand on her waist tightening unbearably. She knew there would be five bruises there and then wondered if she would even live to see them.

_He's going to kill me, _Christine thought frantically. _Or worse._

She writhed in his hold even though the effort was futile. Her mind was paralysed. Something this horrible could not be happening to her. He was speaking again, accented tones frustrated at her continued resistance. "Come with me, you foolish girl, I was sent to –"

Christine bit down on the hand covering her mouth with a savage ferocity. His howl of pain split her ears and the hand was snatched away. Taking advantage of the temporary release, Christine threw herself backward, both hands against the wall as she stumbled unsteadily towards the distant light and sounds of the Kasbah.

_Erik! _she thought wildly. _Come quickly! Come quickly, Erik, help me, oh please help me!_

She could hear ragged breathing behind her, the horrifying, inevitable approach of an assailant who was stronger, faster, and would overpower her in seconds –

"_Listen, _you stupid girl, you don't understand –"

An almost animalistic roar filled her ears as the entrance of the alley was blocked by a dark shape; a tall, broad-shouldered figure, whose black hair fell around his face in dramatic contrast to his white porcelain mask –

_Erik – _

"Oh, thank God –" she gasped.

He was across the alley so fast, Christine barely saw him move. There was a grapple – a struggle – she squinted in the dim light – then she saw Erik had the assailant in a deathlike hold. Weakening relief overpowered her momentarily. She painfully groped her way along the wall, and Erik looked up at the movement –

Then she saw the exposed half of his face, and the feeling of relief vanished instantly. No saviour, this. Facing her was a dark and savage stranger, wild eyes alive with demoniac ferocity and burning malice. A choked whimper escaped her raw throat. She scuttled away as eddying fear clutched at her insides and could only watch as something slid from the darkened folds of his clothing, something that flashed in a shimmering arc of silver as it rose towards the sky –

Then, in a sickening rush, she knew what would happen, what he was going to do –

"Erik, _no –_" she cried, as the knife descended, plunging deep into the struggling body of her assailant.

* * *

The silence was enormous.

For a long, long time, the three of them remained stationary in the shadows, frozen in a kind of twisted tableau: Erik holding onto the stained knife, Christine crouched in her position against the wall, and the body lying on the ground.

Christine was the first to move. Slowly, stumblingly, she crawled on all fours towards the prone figure. Gasping, near-crying, she reached out a tentative hand that stopped mid-motion before touching him – _it_. She saw the man – the corpse – lying motionless; the last expression on his face was one of stark and twisted pain.

_Oh God – Oh God –_

Her stomach roiled and churned as she struggled to her feet, lurching almost drunkenly and clutching at the wall again for support. She was going to be sick. Taking deep, unsteady breaths, she closed her eyes as hard as she could.

Her mind was screaming at her to run _(for God's sake run) _but her legs trembled beneath her. She could only, unwillingly, open her eyes once more, her heart racing, as she stared at Erik. His head was bowed, looking downward. She followed his gaze. Something ran over his hands – hot, slick, wet – and the knife slipped from his grasp, hitting the ground with a resounding clang.

* * *

Erik staggered backward, staring down at his hands. Something buried that had been rooted deep in his chest was struggling to get out, constricting his ribcage, choking him. He choked back a rising sea of nausea. It had happened. Oh Jesus Christ, it had happened. He had lost control. A rapidly building scream was pressing against the walls of his skull. Erik could hear the blood pounding in his ears. He felt it all over again: the beginnings of that horrific descent that would pull him into a hellish mixture of madness, terror, and ravaging guilt that he could never express. But for Christine, for Christine's sake, he must not, he _must not –_

Oh _God_ –

Erik's mind reeled.

_Christine_.

Erik felt his consciousness begin to recede in a towering wave.

"Erik –"

Her face wavered and swam before him in a mist that was pale and swirling and all-enveloping. But the image of her _expression_; appalled, sickened, horrified – twisted into stark lines as though seen through a distorted mirror – it was branded onto his retinas like an ultra-violet imprint after staring too long at the sun. He wondered if he would ever see anything else again.

If she were any paler, Erik thought to himself – she was going to faint, to die –

But her figure was becoming more indistinct, rushing away with the rest of the world, and the corners of his vision darkened, probing fingers blackening against his lids – _Yes – _he thought distantly – _let it end – please let it be over – _and he stretched out his arms to welcome the annihilating approach of unconsciousness –

Christine's whispered voice pierced the swirling vortex of his thoughts, brutally dragging him back from the brink of relieving oblivion. "What have you done? What in God's name have you done?"

Erik tried to speak but the words would not come. Violent tremors tore through him, as though his body was trying to shake itself apart. Madness and fever consumed him. He gasped in lungfuls of dusty air, trying to breathe, trying to _think – _

Then a sudden numb sensation descended over him like a narcotic. His instinct for self-preservation rose to the fore, turning him at once commanding, swift, decisive.

"Move," he said. "Now."

Christine stared at him uncomprehendingly.

Erik caught hold of her arm in vice-like grip. His tone was hard, urgent. "We have to go before we're seen."

Her arm was limp and lifeless in his hold. Erik cast a swift, searching look around the narrow alley and clenched his jaw. He did not have time to wait for her to be persuaded. They needed to leave. This instant.

The brief phase of madness had passed, and Erik knew where he was again. The knowledge returned to him his cool sense of control. Now came the escape, the contingency, the strategy. This was Persia; this was Paris all over again. The agonies he might choose to tear himself up over in later solitude could wait. Whatever he was feeling now, he would have to bury it. Right now they had to run. Erik was not entirely clear on the laws surrounding murder in this place and he was not prepared to wait around to find out.

He had to drag Christine away from the scene. She could not move herself; she seemed almost catatonic. Erik kept a brutally tight unyielding hold on her as he threw them both into the midst of the busy market and crowd of people, but this could only be temporary, his hands and clothing were covered in blood and Christine's expression of blank terror could give them away at any moment –

There was nothing to connect either of them to the murder, they had emerged from that alley unseen, and if they could only get back to the guest house where he could wash the blood from his skin, scrub himself _raw – _

His body would not stop shivering. He felt sick. Dirty. Erik gritted his teeth. He would not think about that, he _would not – _

Roughly, he pushed past traders and merchants, moving onward until the dusty ground gave way to scanty grasses and a shallow ditch running along the verge. He looked up and saw a belt of twisted trees marking the edge of the town. They had reached the road. Erik paused, thinking fast. The roads were busy this time of the day, to steal a horse or cart would be far too conspicuous, both to drivers and passers-by walking along the lane. But they could not remain here, neither could they walk fast enough in this searing heat, covered in blood. Christine was breathing heavily next to him; she hadn't spoken since they had left the alley –

The clatter of approaching hooves interrupted his thoughts. An Arab merchant leaving the market on horseback, trailing a small cart that had sold all its day's produce. Erik made up his mind. He ran into the middle of the road, pulling Christine along behind him and hailed the rider. The merchant pulled up short, gazing down at him with slumberous eyes.

"Please," said Erik, thinking fast. "My wife… she has had an accident. She needs medical attention." He dropped a handful of coins into the Arab's hand, hastily giving the address of the street where their lodgings were located. "Can you take us there quickly?"

The merchant nodded, casting a concerned look at Christine. "It's not very stable in the cart. Will your wife be alright there? Had you not better wait for –"

"I'll sit with her," said Erik impatiently. "Will you help us?"

"Of course." The man nodded, and Erik propelled Christine towards the narrow contraption, making sure she was securely lodged before climbing in after her. The whip cracked and the horse bolted forward, sending the cart down the white road in a cloud of dust.

* * *

It was a hot, tumbling, violent, mindless hell-ride over the jagged road; a wild, thunderous gallop under the burning sun, the smell of sweat and dust heavy and close and suffocating. Bolts of pain jolted through Christine's limbs every time the cart pitched into the uneven dips pock-marking the ground. She was sprawled against the hot wooden slats, stunned and shaken, hardly breathing. A vision of sand and sun and sky flashed past her in a dizzying blur. From the corner of her gaze, she could see Erik's dark shape crouched across from her, a deadly figure of night, leather and destruction. There was dust in his hair and blood on his hands, the caged beast finally unleashed and looking ravenous for more. His annihilating presence had struck her paralysed; she could only close her eyes, feeling her body thrown from side to side by the movement of the cart, rattling her teeth and bones, the hair falling over her face. Her ribs were bruised, her throat scorched with thirst and she was wild with fear. He was death and she was death's consort; nothing else existed, there was only this swirling maelstrom of madness and despair –

He was speaking but she could not hear the words, could not _think_ over the pounding of hooves upon the hard road and the screaming in her own mind. Something hovered over her – she opened her eyes and excruciating white-hot fire stabbed her vision –

The shadow reached out and laid his hands on her – the touch was like the meeting of liquid metals –

– Christine felt herself being burned, incinerated –

Her head fell back and she let the darkness overcome her.


	20. News and Reflection

**The Mask and Mirror**

Chapter 20

Light. It slanted in through the open shutters, harsh, afternoon Algerian sun. Raoul winced in pain. It hurt his eyes. Sweat beaded on his upper lip, heat flushing his cheeks. He could feel tiredness in his very bones, seeping into his wrists, his legs, his back; it burned him. Hoping to ease the stiffness in his limbs, he walked towards the window. He had a dim memory of perspiration-soaked cotton sheets abrading his skin, a restless, sleepless night. Dusk until dawn, and back again. He paused, hands resting against the sun-scorched wooden shutters. Low voices and the creaking of floorboards vibrated through his fingertips.

No, sleep was not the problem. It was the being awake that was the difficulty. Facing the hollow recurrence of a new day, thinking with less and less conviction that perhaps something would come tomorrow –

Tomorrow, and the day after that, and the day after that…

Damned to despair, to exile. Hours spent wandering the market, from bars to stalls, through the endless drone of meaningless voices. Heart stopping whenever he caught the glimpse of a slender figure, dark, curling hair. The dust of a thousand days on his hands (_better dust than blood_) and nothing but the endless seeking, searching for an end, a salvation he doubted would ever come.

Raoul looked out the window, eyes half-closed against the painful blinding light.

_This,_ he thought dully_, this place, this life I'm living – this is Hell. This hard, horrible world with its infernal sun and endless sand and swarms of cruel, lonely people. Nothing can be worse than this. Nothing._

In the close, low-ceilinged room, the air was stifling, he felt like couldn't breathe; he was slowly suffocating –

_Destroy me. Burn me. Char me to ashes and bone until I can no longer think, no longer feel. _

He was forced to suffer each moment the intolerable loss of his previous life of contentment and peace. Those formerly happier times seemed like something from a past life or a distant memory. How long had it been? How many weeks and months of trial and darkness and misery? It was not merely Christine. It had started… before that. A gradual deterioration of a life that had once seemed blessed. And now…

Raoul pressed the backs of his hands against his eyes, white spots burning into his vision. He wanted to crawl away into somewhere dark and cold, somewhere he did not have to face the hateful, glaring light that threw everything into bright and violent relief. Everything here was harsh. He tried to picture the quiet days on his estate, the pastel moderation of cool shades and soft grasses, but the memory eluded him.

Innocence lost could never be regained. He had once thought that good must triumph over evil, that life was a thing of beauty and happiness and hope; that bad things did not happen to good people. By God, how wrong he was. How blind he had been.

This was a man who had had the world's cruelty and ugliness suddenly and starkly exposed to him, and lacking the energy to change it, he had chosen instead to accept it and used the understanding of its workings to achieve his own ends. Raoul had always been someone who saw the ends over the means. Even when he had naively offered to trade his life for Christine's freedom in a sweeping noble gesture, he had been prepared to do whatever it took to keep her safe. What had changed was his delusional thinking that he could play the hero. Now he was hollow with certainty. He had gone beyond such a inexperienced conviction, and the wake-up call he had received as a result had merely hardened him to his purpose. Raoul would never be the same man again.

His had once been a merry, naïve soul. Now, little more than a year later, he was a man driven only by a bleak sense of duty, torn between despair at his inability to return to his former life and a fervent wish to end it all.

He hated this apathy, this emotional void, and hated himself for feeling this way. Yet there seemed no way out. The pain seemed normal now. Like breathing.

A dull, persistent pounding had begun in his temples.

_What has happened to me? Why am I so changed?_

The pounding increased. It was only then Raoul realised it was not coming from within, but from someone knocking on his door. He released a slow sigh.

"Come in."

Meg Giry put her head around the door. "Raoul? Maman says there's a man here to see you. He says you were expecting him."

Raoul dragged his gaze away from the glaring light of the aperture.

"Yes," he said tonelessly. "Yes, I'm coming."

* * *

In the parlour of the boarding house, Madame Giry watched the visitor – she used the term loosely – with narrow distrust. He had made a half-motion to sit down, but a severe flash of her eyes had caused him to change his mind. Instead, he had taken to lounging by the window in what she regarded as an intolerably insolent manner. She observed too, with dispassion, that his face was a mask of blood, but was not particularly inclined to offer any assistance. Thieves and cutthroats deserved whatever injuries they received. Her mouth twisted into a bitter line.

It was not in Antoinette Giry's nature to betray the emotional tumults that had shaped her existence. Her husband's death had – outwardly at least – merely augmented her stern and self-reliant tendencies when she was left to rear a child single-handedly. She weathered change unflinchingly. Even now, after crossing continents, her angular figure was unaltered, as was the dark grey hair twisted into a tight knot at the base of her neck. Her severe expression too, had remained the same, but formerly, there had been a certain something about the mouth – that implied a wry sense of humour that emerged on rare occasions – which was gone.

She clicked her tongue between her teeth with mingled impatience and frustration. The stuffiness of the room caused sweat to trickle down her back. Each breath she took was dust and searing heat, tightening her chest within the strains of her rough-worn bodice, starch against skin. Beside her, Nadir was seated by the small table, large hands crossed one over the other. His patience was both admirable and provoking to Antoinette, who possessed so little of it herself.

At the sound of approaching footsteps clattering down the stairs, Nadir's soft, serious eyes lost some of their dimness, snapping into sudden darker clarity. Disapproval seemed to emanate from his quietly graceful and aged frame. Madame Giry stood up at once as her daughter entered, followed more slowly by Raoul.

The Persian cast him a reproving look that the Vicomte met with cool indifference. Madame Giry's sharp eyes noticed the tension at once but before she could consider it any further, Meg had given a sharp gasp at the sight of the stranger's face.

"What _happened –_"

Apart from a flicker deep within his eyes, Raoul made no reaction.

"Meg," Madame Giry said brusquely, "You should wait outside –"

"No," Meg said firmly.

"Fine," her mother said with unusual acquiescence, deciding the girl might as well be useful if she remained. "Get some water and bandages."

As her daughter left the room, Antoinette turned back to Raoul. The atmosphere had changed subtly since his entrance; he seemed to draw all eyes his way. Somnolent expectancy heightened into brooding tension. In the corner of her eye, she was aware of Nadir standing up, one hand leaning heavily against the table.

Raoul was staring at the guest with distaste, but then his mouth slowly curved into a smile. "I'd like to make an introduction," he said; and it was a shock, this seeming return to formality. But never had he spoken with such smooth derisiveness, never had he smiled with such cutting precision. "Madame Giry, Nadir… Jacques here is assisting us in recovering Christine."

"If that is even his real name," the Persian said cynically.

"Of course it isn't," said Raoul, as though Nadir had said something very stupid. The stranger merely smiled with apparent amusement at the evident disharmony within their small circle. Antoinette bristled with annoyance, several acerbic remarks burning on the tip of her tongue. However, before she could speak, her gaze met that of Raoul. He was looking at her, at Nadir, as though challenging them to criticise, to pass judgement. In that instant there was something remote and inexorable about him that made even Madame Giry stand mute.

Satisfied of their compliance, Raoul again returned his attention to Jacques. "I wasn't expecting you until tonight."

The smile left the stranger's face. "I came for my payment."

"You'll receive it when I hear something useful."

The man subsided reluctantly. Antoinette felt a flicker of uncharacteristic surprise. Never had she thought to see Raoul hold his own against such a man, much less dominate him utterly. Silence reigned over the small room.

Presently, Meg returned, bearing a bowl of water and a wad of cloth. Curls of steam rose from the water's surface, damp and cloying in the constricted heat of the parlour. She set the bowl down on the table. The initial shock over, she was looking at the stranger with a frank, almost impertinent curiosity. Unlike Christine, who was so often overcome with shyness with unfamiliar people, Meg possessed the enviable ability to be at ease in any situation. Antoinette looked at her daughter with an affection that she would never outwardly express. She was fiercely proud of her daughter; she loved the slight, fair-haired girl with an intensity all the greater for its very undemonstrativeness.

Meg dipped the cloth into the bowl of water and brought it to the man's face. He winced as she applied pressure to the long cut running from cheekbone to jaw.

"Who did this?" Nadir asked calmly.

"Who do you think?" said Jacques impatiently.

"So much for remaining inconspicuous," Meg muttered.

"Meg." There was a warning in her mother's voice.

"That'll do," said Raoul, and went to take the cloth from Meg. But the girl abruptly jerked her hand away, as though the touch burned her flesh. Raoul looked at her, bewildered, for a moment, then returned to the matter at hand.

Meg dropped the cloth into the bowl of bloodied water, and pulled out a wad of bandaging, which she began to apply with quick efficiency, tongue between her teeth as her brown eyes narrowed, examining the injury. She was looking rather flushed. It was very hot in the small room. Strands of dark blonde hair clung to her neckline, the skin beaded with drops of perspiration.

The man gave Raoul a sidelong glance as Meg finished the dressing. "With a pretty peach like that around, why are you so eager to track down another wench?"

"Any more talk like that and I'll finish the job Erik started," Raoul warned him before Madame Giry could strike the man for his impudence.

Meg however, merely smiled sweetly. A moment later, Jacques yelped as she tightened the bandage enough to cut through bone.

"Sorry," said Meg blithely, not sounding sorry in the least. Madame Giry's mouth twitched. She had almost forgotten how to laugh. Even Raoul looked briefly, sardonically amused.

"Why did you come alone?" he asked. "Where's Verges?"

For the first time, Jacques visibly shuddered. "He killed him. Almost killed me too – the man's insane."

"I did warn you," said Raoul, apparently unmoved by the news of another man's death. But the confirmation of another murder committed by Erik's hand caused a cold, sick feeling to spread through Antoinette's stomach. _Hasn't he done enough? Hasn't he done enough already? How much further can he possibly fall?_

And Christine? The unanswered question was like a knifepoint driven into her skin. She could only wait in agonised suspense, a knot of dread tightening in her chest.

Jacques winced in pain and looked up at the Vicomte through a heavy wad of bandaging (Meg had been very thorough). "He's aware you're following him. I thought you should know."

"I know," Raoul said wearily. "Tell me about Christine. Did you see her?"

"I saw her – briefly. I followed them as far as the town limits, but they hailed a cart, I was unable to keep up."

The self-contained, sensible Madame Giry felt her entire body weaken with relief. Whatever might have happened, Christine was still alive, at least. She glanced sideways. Meg had released a thankful sigh, but Raoul's reaction was startling. The detached self-assurance was gone. He had turned white – white to the lips. "She's alive?" he said. "You're certain?"

"Quite certain."

The Vicomte stared at him, his eyes wide and almost despairing. "She's alive – she's really here?"

"Yes."

Raoul turned away, his face drawn and haggard. "My God," he said, in a terrible voice.

"Raoul –" said Nadir, in concern. The Vicomte had retreated a few steps towards the door and was staring at the floor blankly. "I thought…" He could not go on.

Madame Giry frowned in bewilderment. "Monsieur –"

"I can't," he said, in an odd, dead sort of voice. "I just – I can't –"

Meg knelt down beside Jacques, her expression imploring. "How did she look?"

The man cast her a withering look, which she met steadily. "She was covered in another man's blood, being dragged away by a murderer. How do you think she looked?"

Before she could answer hotly to that, there was a clanking thud. Raoul had thrown a purse down on the table with a gesture of contempt. Some of the colour was returning to his cheeks; they burned with an unnatural, feverish intensity. "Take it," he said flatly. There was hard, narrow look in his eyes that darkened his irises to slate. "Take it and go. I don't ever want to see you here again."

Without another word, he strode from the room. There was such a stark and terrible expression on his face that nobody thought to hold him back. In the silence left by his departure, Madame Giry fixed Jacques with a steely eye. "I think your work here is done." Her voice was crisp, concise and effectual once more. "Meg, I think you can show our guest out." She laid a pointed stress on the word 'guest'_._

Her daughter turned wide brown eyes of surprise on her mother, before perceiving she had something to say alone to Nadir. With a swift nod, she motioned Jacques to follow her, who, to Antoinette's surprise, did with no further difficulties once he had swept the purse from the table and checked its contents with intense scrutiny.

When they were left alone, Madame Giry turned at once to the Persian. "Tell me what has happened between you and the Vicomte." It was a command, not a request.

Nadir looked startled, but it was only momentary. He was becoming used to her bluntness. "We had… words. I didn't approve of his idea to place Christine's life in the hands of thieves and murderers."

"And what did he say?"

The Persian gave a short laugh. "He essentially told me to mind my own business and not to interfere in his affairs."

Antoinette heard this without surprise, although the news confirmed her apprehensions. Raoul had turned to deceit and ruthlessness almost unnervingly fast. She was seeing a slow erosion of any will other than that to recover Christine. Even his formerly protective instincts had merely dwindled to a prosaic sense of duty to the welfare of their small circle, but it seemed a tacked-on afterthought rather than driven by a profound moral conviction. Madame Giry frowned, her mouth a thin, tight line. "Perhaps I should talk to him."

"And say what? If he wanted our help, he would ask for it."

"Those in the most desperate need for help are often those who rarely ask for it."

She did not mention Erik's name. She didn't need to. The significance of her words hung between them.

Lines of woe were etched in Nadir's face; there was no anger there, only deep weariness and part self-blame. "You know…" His words were slow and halting. "Terrible as it may sound, I still… I _cannot _hate him."

Brief anger flared within Antoinette. She had always – well, she couldn't say _liked _Erik, but had always had a certain regard for him, a mixture of pity and respect. And in turn, he had treated her with a curious deference that was almost _amusing. _She had thought at first that Christine's visits were good for him, that they would help draw him from his loneliness and encourage him to compassionate with another human being who had also known the pain of loss. But as his desires and actions became increasingly darker and more twisted, she had been horrified at the thought that she was at least partly responsible. But after his disappearance, a measure of her pity for him had begun to return, only for him to make a mockery of such compassion in taking Christine by force. Her fierce grey eyes flashed. Did the man's wickedness know no bounds?

Nadir's dark, melancholy eyes were full of a compassion that wasn't entirely welcome. Antoinette did not like to be pitied. "He always spoke very highly of you."

"Likewise," she conceded reluctantly.

Silence, pervasive and heavy, fell between them. They had been living like this for weeks, all of them. Close, yet distant. No Parisian culture or rules of etiquette to fall back on. Slipping into the shadow of routine, trying to find a rhythm that worked. Madame Giry was not entirely sure they had succeeded.

"We know for certain that Christine is alive, at least."

"Did you ever doubt?"

Now she definitely did not like the knowing look in his eyes. "I never allowed myself to doubt."

Wisely, Nadir didn't question any further. Somewhere upstairs, a door swung open, sending a brief, welcome draft through the stifling parlour. He looked up at the sound, then peered at her intently through the stream of dust and half-light. "I understand what brings _him_ all this way. But why are you here?"

Her gaze caught his, and he didn't look away. "I made a promise to someone."

It had been ten years ago, but the memory was vivid still, sliding in the space between her heart and lungs, another twist of the remorseful dagger. Antoinette inhaled, and it seemed she was breathing in the perfumed air of a dress rehearsal production _(__Yevgény Onégin__) _and details rose before her mind's eye. Lights, a stage, a face old and lined, forget-me-not blue eyes lit from within with the feverish brightness of consumption.

"_Taking care of a sick and elderly lady is no life for a young girl. I will be leaving her everything I own, but it is not a great sum. I want to know that she will be able to provide for herself."_

"_To be frank, Madame, I see little future for her here," said Madame Giry. Behind her, Lensky lay bleeding from his wound on the stage. "She is far too sensitive and easily distracted. A career in the Ballet Corps requires single-minded dedication and a thick skin. Neither of which young Mademoiselle Daae seems to demonstrate. She cries even at the mildest criticism."_

"_But her voice –" Madame Valerius insisted, "Have you heard her sing?"_

"_Her voice is passable," said Madame Giry coolly. Not for the world would she tell Madame Valerius what she really thought of Christine's singing. If any word of that reached the child's ears it would only cause an inappropriate degree of vanity._

"_Of course she has suffered after her poor father. But if you were only to give her a chance, I am sure she would excel."_

"_The other children find her strange and unsettling," said Madame Giry, bluntly. "She does not like to socialise with them. Young Jammes found some of the oddest sketches under her bed, and Christine said they were pictures of Korrigans, or some such nonsense. She is not popular and makes no effort to fit in."_

"_But according to her letters, she has become very attached to your daughter. I am glad for her sake, for she has few friends, poor child."_

_Madame Giry was not entirely impervious, and it was always flattering to hear one's own children praised. "Yes, Meg has taken a liking to her. I suppose I could take her on." There had never been any question that this would be the case. The truth was, Madame Giry had already become very fond of the girl. There was an endearing quality to Christine that had won over the hard ballet mistress in spite of herself. And the Opera Populaire could always use more chorus girls. "But she must be prepared to give the Ballet Corps her full commitment. No more burying her head in storybooks or wandering off alone. Joseph Buquet found her on the roof a few weeks ago." _

"_But I'm sure she meant no mischief. Christine is never naughty. She is always such a good girl."_

Antoinette looked at the Persian intently a moment before speaking. "Madame Valerius was a proper lady, one of the few women I had a real respect for. There are not many women I would keep such a promise for. She raised Christine well, and wanted to see to it that I would continue to do the same." Madame Giry took a breath. Better not to dwell on the past. Better for her. Better for all of them.

She straightened her shoulders, worn hands smoothing down the crisp, conservative material of her skirts. It rustled like old parchment, a sound reminiscent of drawing rooms and afternoon tea, a sound very out of place in this sandswept corner of the world. "I will speak to the Vicomte."

She swept out into the hall, her booted feet sounding startlingly loud as they struck against the wooden floor. Quiet here, too. The noise outside reached her ears as a vague echo, somehow unreal. She could see no sign of Meg… upstairs perhaps, although she hated solitude and idleness – two things that they had become very used to over the past weeks. Antoinette was unwilling to let her daughter wander the market alone, however vehemently Meg insisted she could take care of herself. She had already lost Christine –

Madame Giry almost walked into Raoul as she reached the top of the stairs. He would have passed on by in silence, but her voice halted him.

"Monsieur, wait."

He turned back to face her. Madame Giry was struck by a sudden memory. It had been a humid summer's day, the windows of their apartment thrown wide open. Raoul had come calling on Christine, and Madame Giry, unnoticed, had walked in on the pair as they were standing in the hallway, waiting for his carriage. Raoul had been talking, smiling, his face animated and lively. He gesticulated with his hands as he spoke, and he said something that made Christine laugh. Antoinette smiled. It had been a long time since she had seen Christine looking so happy and she felt a rare feeling of affection towards the man who had been the cause of it.

Now it seemed to Madame Giry as though she were looking at the shell of that man. The smooth lines and fluid contours of his face had gone beyond all trace; the once pleasant physiognomy had become sharp, harsh even. Although only twenty-one, small lines were already creasing the corners of his deep-set eyes; small furrows were visible between his brows. But it was also in the way he held himself, with a strange, almost savage alertness. There was darkness, a hardness to him that she never would have thought to find in the mild mannered and easy-tempered nobleman who always promised to have Christine home by ten o'clock. The former courteous respect he had shown her was gone, too. Now, he was watching her coolly, and Antoinette knew that this was a man who would no longer be cowed by her, or stand for anyone to dominate him. Nothing would ever intimidate him again.

It took a moment for her to find the words. She had never been able to warmly and openly speak of her feelings of love and affection that expressed itself so openly and naturally in her daughter. She had always liked the Vicomte but his interest in Christine had resulted in her being sterner and more critical, not wanting to express her approval too demonstratively.

"I know I have been stern and harsh with you perhaps, but I always held you in high regard and could think of no one else whom I would be more willing to give Christine to. I thought you should know."

The words came out cold and austere, not how she intended. Then she wondered if they were even true anymore. Raoul made no reaction, merely looked at her with that same blank-behind-the-eyes expression, as though she had not said anything worth replying to. Antoinette knew then that her assertion came too late, he was beyond her offering of kindness, beyond anyone's. He seemed to have just… stopped caring.

She would have preferred anger, tears, recriminations – anything but this cold withdrawal into himself. Not once in the last two months had she witnessed any loss of control or alteration from this chilling detachment. But it was more than that.

It had never before occurred to her that there could be something dangerous within him, that the formerly polite and eager-to-please exterior could hide the potentiality for a darkness so deeply rooted that he himself had been unaware of it. But she knew now – knew with an uncharacteristic chill of vague horror – that if they found Christine tomorrow, she would have serious misgivings in handing her surrogate daughter over to this man.

Madame Giry frowned as she watched him walk away, aware of a strange emotion tightening her chest. It felt rather like fear.

_Why, _she thought, _do I feel like Christine is safer in the hold of a murderer than with her own fiancée?_

* * *

The sun outside was a high, white inferno that bleached everything outside to bone. Silhouetted in its blaze of light, Raoul was stood still, shoulders set rigidly as he gazed out the window with a strange expression of distaste twisting his features, as though something about the view appalled him. Meg could not imagine what. There was only the hot, twisting streets and bustle of the market below, sights they saw everyday. Nothing special or different about it.

_But, _a voice whispered in her head with a rare flash of insight, _It's probably that sameness that he hates, it brings him no closer to finding Christine. There's a whole world standing between him and what he wants. Of course he must hate it._

Raoul closed the shutters. His eyes in the half-shadow were charcoal grey, bleak and distant. Meg stared at him, at the lean angular lines in his face that sharpened his beauty, lending it a new, heightened intensity so far removed from his formerly straightforward handsomeness. Yet he looked tense and tired, as he often did, but it was more than that. It was as though some newly awakened horror had just unfolded within him. His mind was elsewhere. Always elsewhere. A mystery she could never solve. Somewhere in her clear, forthright, uncomplicated mind, this infuriated her. For the first time, her passionate wilful nature had found someone she could not subdue, someone whom she could not beguile, bend or break. It was perhaps the one time in her life when something had not come easily to her and she felt a petulant flash of stubborn irritation at the thought.

She who lived everything she was on the surface found herself inexplicably drawn to the reserved, the distant, the enigmatic. Her fierce curiosity and deep capacity for tenderness drove her to unearth this sombre and haunted man from the recesses of his darker self.

How odd it was that she had not thought or cared anything for him when he was faultless and healthy. That she was only drawn to him now, when he was flawed and imperfect. She recalled how Christine had interested her on their first meeting. The pale, painfully shy and grief-stricken girl had held a kind of powerful fascination, and Meg had determined to set about getting to know this girl. She inexplicably felt she would prefer Christine as a friend to the other more popular girls at the Opera.

She wondered why she had come here, why she had followed him when he never sought company, seemed rather to consciously hold himself apart. Meg shook her head. It did not matter how or why they had come here. All that mattered was that they _were _here. All that mattered was this, here, the heavy silence, the smell of dust-and-musk, the pulse drumming in her ears with a rhythm as vivid and primal as that of the Mustapha drummers who played outisde her window at night.

"You left so suddenly," she said at last. There was a tight, hoarse feeling in her throat she knew was not due to the parched quality of the air. "I was worried." Inwardly, she winced. _God, I sound like my mother._

"She's alive," Raoul said slowly, as though not speaking to her. "Christine's alive."

"But that's _good._"

"Yes," he echoed. "Good. Wonderful."

"Then why are you looking as though it's something terrible?"

He closed his eyes, clenching the windowsill with white-knuckled hands. "It's better if you don't know."

Meg drew herself upright. "It's better if I do."

"You won't want to come near me," he rasped. "Not if you knew –"

But the problem was, she _did _want to go near him, nearer than she should, nearer than was good for her. She recalled the vivid spark of electricity that had leapt across her skin from the brief brush of his hand against her own. She wondered whether reaching out and touching him would incite a similar flare, whether it would charge and restore some life to his faded and shadowed countenance. She clenched her jaw. _I can never know._

It occurred to her how strange it was for him to keep secrets, someone whom she had always regarded as guileless and open about everything. She could not imagine bearing solitary burdens and shutting everyone out; that she would feel pain so intense that others would need to be protected from it. She was aware of a burning need to know the cause of this buried resentment, this secret unhappiness. She hated the thought that those she considered and trusted as friends could hide things from her. How betrayed she had felt when she finally learned the full nature of Christine's music teacher, when Christine had confessed all to her some months later. _Some secrets are necessary, _Christine had said sadly.

_Necessary? _Meg thought disbelievingly. _It's killing him._

Raoul stared straight ahead, speaking with obvious reluctance. "I thought she might be dead. And for a moment – just a moment – I wanted it."

There was a ringing in Meg's ears. She was certain she had misheard him. The words echoed resoundingly, like pebbles dropped into a dark well. She stared at him. "You wanted it?"

"I wanted it over. If Christine died… it would be awful, my heart would break… but it would be over. Finished. No more of this endless uncertainty, this purgatory. I just wanted to be done with everything." He stared at her through the fall of his bronze hair, hollow-eyed. "In that moment, I wanted Christine dead."

_I should have known. That look when he found out Christine was alive – it was guilt. I should have seen it. _"It's understandable you wanted a second's release. But that's all it was. You didn't have to come out here, but the fact that you have shows that you care for her."

The distance left his eyes then, his awareness of her snapping into sudden, sharper focus. She was almost near enough to touch him. Almost. Heat radiated from the crisp cotton of his shirt. Her palms began to sweat.

"It's one of those things I like best about you," he said. "That things are so simple for you. I think I envy you that, a little."

She tilted her chin upwards and met his haunted eyes with a hard, resolute look. "Do you want Christine dead now?"

"Of course not. But I just – I don't know how much more I can take. After Philippe… it's too much."

His voice fractured slightly at the mention of his brother's name. Meg felt a sudden sense of shame. All that time – all that time she had thought him merely despairing over Christine, she had completely forgotten about the death of his brother. _If it had been you, _a part of her whispered, _if it had been someone _you_ loved… _The room was suddenly far too silent. She wanted to scream.

How far back had this gone? He had never given himself time to grieve over his brother's death. How was he supposed to move on from a loss when he had nothing left but pain? Had he even cried? Somehow, she couldn't imagine Raoul crying; not this chilling, reserved Raoul, anyway. He was staring ahead, blue-grey eyes cold and unreachable. The crescent shadows beneath had deepened into indigo. Her heart felt as though it was fraying apart at the edges. How could he look so beautiful yet so broken? "After Philippe died, it was easier somehow because – because I had so much to do. Running the estate, organising a wedding… I don't have that anymore." His voice was bitter, old.

It occurred to her that this was the first time in weeks that she had seen him exhibit anything less than total self-control, that this was the part of him that her mother and Nadir would never, ever see. Meg was too sensible to flatter herself that Raoul had singled her out for any particular reason to divulge these confidences to. He had just wanted to tell _someone. _She wondered if he drew any comfort from her presence, or merely wanted her gone. Her simple, direct nature could not fully comprehend the complexities of his dark state of mind. She knew only the most basic causes of his misery; she had no knowledge of what else haunted him – how could she? She was not aware of the nightmares, the despair and self-loathing, the crippling guilt that made his life a living hell.

"Philippe was always the strong one. He always knew what to do. He looked out for me and I never even realised it… never even had a chance to thank him. And Christine… the last thing I did with her was quarrel."

Meg tried to say something, but no words were forthcoming. She had never had trouble speaking out before. On the contrary, her pithy opinions and outspokenness had been something of a cause for chagrin even in the relatively liberating environment of the Ballet Corps. So why was it, at the moment he needed it most, she could not think of anything to say? She could only sit in mute _(inadequacy? Longing?)_ pity and hear him say these terrible things.

"She was the one thing in my world that made sense. And now she's gone, I feel –"

"Lost?"

Raoul stared at her and said nothing.

"The thing about Christine," Meg said slowly, almost surprised to hear herself speak, "Is that she's different from the rest of us. She believes that all people are as good and generous as she is; she sees a better world to the one we all live in, and when you're with her, you can almost believe in it, too. And when she's gone, everything dark and unpleasant and miserable comes rushing back, and you want to be near her again just to feel like you're a part of that better existence, and that _you're _better, too –"

She suddenly broke off, embarrassed. She had never been one for making long speeches, or for any kind of deep insightful remarks and it threw her off balance. That was the kind of melancholy introspection she had come to expect from Christine that she had only ever listened to with a vague sense of boredom. _Perhaps Raoul isn't the only one who's changed, _she thought, a little wryly.

"But the down side to that," Raoul continued, "Is that you can never feel good enough to measure up to her high standards of you. And then you wonder if the person she loves is even you at all or just some idealised vision you can never live up to. And if she knew who you really were, she would just… leave."

Meg's heart beat, queerly, strangely. She was standing close to him. Close enough to catch the hard, bitter scents of dust and sand and dried blood. "She didn't leave willingly, Raoul. I don't believe she would, not for one moment."

"Maybe not. But she took something of me with her; I think it's that better self she always saw. And whatever's been left behind is… the other things. Things I never –" A shadow crossed his face, of disillusion and defeat. His fingers ran across the wooden shutter in an idle movement, tracing out something – a face? A name?

"This place, this life… you have no idea how much I…" He paused and stretched out his arm so the light the shutters could not fully conceal fell across it, and he gave an odd, half-bitter laugh. "You feel sun on your skin, where I feel only the searing fire. Every day, burning me inside out."

Yes, she knew something of fire. How it ran through the body, circulating the blood with a feverish heat she had never felt when the preening, self-absorbed noblemen flirted with her at the Opera House. Perhaps she could have said so, in the formerly daring way she so often used to.

But she didn't. She remained silent.

She thought that Christine might have been right, after all.

Some secrets were necessary.

**A/N: Reviews are appreciated. Raoul bashing is not.**


	21. The Mask and Mirror

**The Mask and Mirror**

Chapter 21

Darkness had crept into the room, settling over her shoulders in a heavy, enveloping blanket. Yet Christine remained motionless, perched on the hard chair and ignoring the stiffness seeping through her limbs. Her hands twisted in her skirts, skin against soft fabric stained with blood that was not her own. Nausea threatened to take a hold of her then, and she swallowed it down.

Better perhaps if she stopped thinking.

She could feel his breath, warm and soft against the back of her neck, and the skin there prickled in response. It was easy to imagine his heavy figure hovering over her, a darker shadow in the near-blackness of the room. Something brooding and ominous. Something devouring.

She shivered then, and heard him sigh, deep in his throat. "It was too soon; you're still faint. I should have let you rest longer."

God, that voice was beautiful. Even now it was frighteningly easy to forget what he was – what he had _done _– once she succumbed to the hypnotic spell of those low cadences and softly melodious tones.

"No." In comparison, her own voice sounded cracked and dry and rasping. "It's passed."

But even as she spoke, she had a dim memory of rough sheets beneath her body, of burning fever and harsh Algerian sun.

"Let me see."

Low trepidation heightened into real apprehension when Erik soundlessly moved round to face her properly, leaning over and resting his hands on the arms of her chair so he was looking down at her intently.

Close. Far too close. Christine desperately wanted to move, feeling she would burn in the heat of his orbit. Yet he had effectively trapped her in place and she was unwilling to reach out and lay her hands anywhere on his body, even if it was to make him withdraw. She wondered uneasily if that had been his intention. Erik's face was focused and scrutinising; she could see nothing else.

Conversely, there was something both noble and untamed about him. The heavy hair tossed back from his head revealed a brow of compelling genius, but the powerful jaw and mobile, sensual mouth betrayed the brute possibility of a dangerous, savage creature. Copper threads shone in his dark hair. Christine wondered who his parents had been. She remembered the stories she had read as a child, of gypsies and pirates, and could well imagine the gleam of gold in his ear, the firelight on swarthy skin. She gave an ironic inward smile at her foolishness. Corsairs and thieves were not half so dangerous.

She almost jumped out of her skin as he leaned forward and lifted her chin with one hand.

"What are you doing?"

"Please keep still," he said coolly. "I need to see if you are injured."

He leaned in very close, his dark eyes narrowed. She could hear his slightly ragged breathing, the only sound between the two of them. His fingers were very warm, and despite the rough calluses, she could tell he was trying to be gentle. Christine held herself rigid, willing her pulse to stop racing. He had just used those hands to kill someone, had just washed the blood from them. She struggled to remain calm and focused on her breathing, the air seeming to rattle in her lungs.

Christine heard him hiss an intake of breath as he touched a cut on her lower lip. Pain speared through her mouth.

"Who did this?" Erik demanded, eyes darkening. She could almost taste the leashed anger straining beneath his outward calm.

"It's nothing," she hastened to assure him. For some reason, she was unable to meet his eyes. "I think I did it myself – I was startled."

"The bleeding has stopped." His voice was soft; she felt it stir the tiny hairs along her jaw line. "There is little I can do except wait for the cut to close over. Although perhaps an aloe solution of some kind may help prevent infection."

"Where –" Christine heard her voice catch slightly in her throat, struggling to say something normal, mundane. "Where did you learn about medicine?"

"In Persia," he said. "With so many political assassinations taking place, it was always prudent to have a rudimentary knowledge of antidotes for any poison that might reach the unwary."

"You sound as though you speak from experience."

He didn't say anything. Again, there was that air of self-imposed restraint. Christine shivered at the brooding fire in his dark eyes. Perhaps she was safer not knowing.

His fingers accidentally brushed across her jaw line as he withdrew his hand. She gave an involuntary tremor as images flashed through her brain. An alley, a dagger, a mask, a shirt splashed with blood.

The chair clattered to the floor as Christine lurched unsteadily to her feet. Erik's eyes were on her, but she could not remain here, with him standing so close and touching her with those hands… Without realising it, she had backed away a couple of steps.

With some distance imposed between them, the tension did not diminish. Rather, it seemed to heighten. He was watching her expectantly, like a tiger crouched in the jungle. The unspoken thing between them hung in the air like a dark cloud, growing larger and larger until she could bear it no longer.

"You didn't have to kill him," she said.

The atmosphere between them altered instantly. Christine could picture the moment in two distinct halves: the one of Erik's gentle hands and quiet concern, the other with his entire body charged as though struck by a sudden flare of lightning, eyes alive with malice and a glittering dark anger.

"No?" he said, his mellifluous tones becoming harsher as she recognised the warning signs of his suppressed rage. "Then what would you have had me do?"

"Show some mercy."

"Mercy?" His sudden and jarring laugh was like glass shattering. "Because the world is such a _merciful _place!"

"He was running away," she told him, determined to keep her voice calm.

"I did it for you. I was protecting you." A note of danger had crept into his voice. "Besides, had you not been wandering so far out, I would not have had to come in and save you from danger!"

Irritation was beginning to rise within her, in spite of herself. "Well, forgive me for wanting a few moments to myself –"

"I _told_ you this place is not safe! You disobeyed me –"

"_Disobeyed _you?" said Christine, angrily. "I didn't realise you wanted me kept on a leash, Erik!"

Erik's eyes flared. He caught hold of her arm, pulling her towards him until she was pressed against the hard and unyielding weight of his body, the force of his gaze bearing down on her. She was reminded again that he was a man of frightening physical strength. He might dress like a gentleman, but beneath the well-cut jacket and poet's shirt was a fierce and savage stranger who scorned gentility and laughed derisively at social laws. The murderous expression of old had returned, but gone were the days when she would have cowered in a corner or run away. Returning to Erik had reawakened many old emotions. Fear wasn't one of them. Christine tilted her head back, looking up at him unflinchingly.

"Let me go," she said, her voice heavy with contempt.

For a moment, they just stared at each other, breathing hard. She twisted her arm experimentally, but he held her firm. She felt her flesh prickle beneath the burning grip of his fingers. Until that horrifying night of _Don Juan, _Erik's actions had never been violent or brutish, but instead his seduction had taken on the guise of dark romanticism, playing into her perceptions of him as an alluring and mysterious stranger that was enhanced by his very anonymity. But while _Music of the Night_ dwelt on the soft beauty of love, its sweet yearning and gentle surrender, _Don Juan _was all about the consuming nature of lust, the raging intensity that ravaged and devoured even as it hungered for more. She shivered. Why was she thinking such things at a time like this?

"You murdered him in cold blood," she continued in a low voice. "You cannot deny it."

His face was dark with vindication, and something else, something almost feral. "I have no intention of denying it. I've murdered for less."

"Why?"

"For many reasons," he said, and Christine thought that beautiful voice was no longer so beautiful when it carried such a tenor of cruelty. "Power, revenge… amusement."

She shuddered against his tense frame and heard him draw a sharp intake of breath. "Why are you being like this?"

"Perhaps it's just the way I was made. I'm sorry if I cannot live up to your _impossibly _high expectations of me, Christine! Did you fool yourself into believing this was some fairytale?"

She shook her head wildly. "Oh no, Erik, I'm no child anymore. And even if I did try and reconcile myself with fairytales…" She drew a deep breath. "_You _wouldn't be in them."

Erik's self control – always precarious at the best of times – finally snapped. Christine bit down a gasp as he grasped her shoulders and he leaned down over her. "You wouldn't have said so once," he whispered darkly against her skin. There was that strong scent of leather and incense and the hours of darkness, and a wave of light-headedness overcame her. "_In sleep he sang to me… In dreams he came… _I haven't forgotten, Christine."

"Then perhaps you should," she responded breathlessly, thinking it must be anger that was causing her heart to pound so fiercely. His closeness was dizzying. "I was a _child, _Erik."

His eyes, under the fringe of his black lashes, regarded her with a cruel, passionate gleam. "Those were not the words of a child. Neither was the reprise of _Don Juan._"

Trust him to remind her of that. He would never let her forget that moment of weakness when she had been taken in by his music and foolishly allowed her passions and heightened senses to carry her away. That was something she could never undo, and Erik knew it.

His chest rose and fell with each hard breath. "Would you have preferred me to leave you to your fate?"

"_Yes_," she said with fierce conviction, surprising them both. "Better that. Better to suffer, and, yes – better to die than to see you degenerate into an unfeeling killer!"

Erik's hands tightened their hold on her upper arms. "So that's how you see me, is it?"

"I never wanted to see you that way," she said, with painful honesty. "You say you want to change. You want me to love you. But how can I when you do things like this?"

Such fury blazed in his eyes and voice that she flinched as though physically struck. "If it was _you_, I would have kept loving you no matter what you did, no matter what you became!" Some of the violence left his expression then, though the passion remained lurking in his eyes. "And despite what you might think, I do love you, hopelessly."

Yes, his passion for her would endure, like an eternal ember. His gaze was dark and furious, demanding nothing less than her body, heart and soul. In the circle of his arms, she felt trapped as though within a fiery globe, the flames darting out and licking her skin in the places where his hands were upon her. Her senses reeled. She shut her eyes, hard.

"I wish I had never come here," she said, bitterly.

"No you don't," he sneered. "Even if you try to convince yourself otherwise, you don't. You're not sorry, you never were, and if you had the choice you would do it all over again!"

Christine knew he was right. She would have been driven to help him, whatever the cost. Fierce despair rushed through her. How was it that he could penetrate her deepest thoughts with so little effort? How did he so knowingly unlock her darkest secrets and use them as weapons against her? He knew her to the very core, and she hated it. Her hands went to his chest, attempting to push him away, but he did not move. She tried her utmost to ignore the feel of unyielding muscle beneath her fingers, or the fact that she could feel his heart pounding beneath the silken material of his shirt. It seemed incredible that she was the cause of such a response, for how could darkness contain such fire?

"He got what he deserved," Erik said grimly.

"That isn't for you to decide! You cannot just deal out death and judgement when it suits you!"

"And why shouldn't I?" he lashed out.

Christine stared at him. Was his mind really so disturbed that he had no moral code whatsoever? "You really need to ask me that? You cannot even understand why this is wrong, can you? Why this is tearing me up inside?"

He flinched, visibly, and that unguarded reaction gave her something, a flicker, a _hope _that all was not lost_._

"Or perhaps," she said slowly, "You _do_ understand, and that's why this is so painful to you. This isn't about me at all. It's the fact that you can't bear to look at yourself."

Erik made no reaction; only his eyes resembled dark wounds in his face.

"And you think… _I_ can't bear to look at you."

Her heart was pounding in her throat as she slowly drew out the mirror she had bought from the marketplace and held it before him. Erik made no move to take it, but looked down, gazing at it for a long, long time, and his face was concealed in shadow.

"What's this?" he said very quietly.

"It's yours, now."

"Oh, I see." His head snapped up with startling suddenness, and his look thrust into her like a dagger. "A little something to remind me of what I am? Just in case I might _forget?"_

He tore the mask off his face savagely, and leaned towards her.

"Is this what you wanted to remind me of?"

"Erik –"

"As you can see…" his voice dropped to a savage whisper. "The fires of Hell do not fade so easily, my dear."

She wanted to do something – reach out an entreating hand, perhaps – but before she could say anything, he had turned and strode swiftly from the room. She did not think to go after him; his unexpectedly vicious response had struck her paralysed. Christine heard a door slam somewhere upstairs, and then the terrible sound of an awful, heartbroken moan.

A convulsive wave of despairing horror overcame her; she clung to the back of the chair, leaning over, and she realised she was taking deep, gasping breaths. Her mind struggled to comprehend the shocking scene that had just taken place between them. He had killed a man – and freely, no _callously_, admitted it. And had done so without showing any remorse whatsoever.

_My God – my God – _

The feeling of faintness came over her once more, and the room wavered before her eyes. She saw not the furniture, the floor, the window, but the shadowy alley and Erik's savage triumph as he raised a knife stained with blood.

She had seen death before, in the slow, wasting sickness that had consumed her father, but this was brutal murder. And it had happened because of her.

_If it was you, _Erik had said, _I would have kept loving you no matter what you did, no matter what you became._

Christine felt her heart shudder. Was this love? After all, Raoul loved her with all his heart, and there was none of this violence, this heartache. She thought back to the Opera. Where Raoul's love expressed itself in warm and easy affection, Erik's was a wild, fierce passion. Raoul had a rational mind and an affectionate heart. Erik had a poet's soul while his hands dripped blood.

Feeling sickened and drained, Christine groped her way over to the window. Scorching sunlight had given way to a high, cold moon that seemed closer here than it ever had in Paris. The memory of another night, long ago, came back to her. She saw a small attic room, not unlike the one she stood in now, a piercing crystalline moon glittering in a winter sky, and herself kneeling on the floor in speechless agony, weeping with loss and despair.

_I can't, _she thought hopelessly. _I can't do this anymore._

It was too much. All of it. The walls seemed to be pressing in around her. And she was cold suddenly, colder than anything.

An awful feeling was welling up inside her. She tried to discover what it was that was that made her hands shake and her lungs so tight and constricted. Every unsteady breath was inflamed and lacerating, and still this unnameable emotion grew until she thought she would choke on its intensity. Then, in a rush of understanding, it came to her.

It was fear.

Raw and painful, it tugged at her heartstrings; terrible, imminent fear that this responsibility she had assigned herself was something too large for her. Why had she never thought of it before? Had she really believed that a girl of nineteen had any hope of redeeming a soul drenched in blood?

A tear trickled out from beneath her lowered lids. Her mind was frantically working backwards, going over the weeks they had spent together, trying to latch onto something, _anything _that might tell her it was not already too late.

Had it all been for nothing? The days, the weeks, the months?

The room wavered before her, a hideous blurry sheen.

Did he even want to _try?_

She did not know what to do at all. Thoughts were running through her head, confused, dizzying, painful. And probing deeper, at the root of it, was the most burning question of all.

Why did she _care _so much? No one else did. Not Raoul. Not Madame Giry. Not Meg. Why was it her that was feeling this so deeply, so acutely?

In many ways he was her counterpart, yet somehow closer to her than anyone she knew. He also knew her to the core. How was it that he had woven himself into every fibre of her being, embedded himself so deeply she no longer knew where he ended and she began? She had never been able to detach herself where he was concerned. Not that she hadn't tried. Oh, she had run – run so far and so fast she thought she would die – but she had never been able to forget him.

No, she could never forget him. But could she forgive him?

Christine stopped, mid-shuddering breath, and blinked the stinging moisture from her eyes. Through her misted vision, the moonlight speared into many-faceted rays. It was blinding. It was beautiful. It was unbearable pain.

Did she even _want _to forgive him? For how could she live with forgiving someone who had betrayed her, and might do so again?

She could still walk away. She could decide that she had done enough, and no one would blame her for it. And yet, and yet…

_He needs you now, more than he has ever needed anyone in his life, and you would abandon him?_

She wavered, agonised with indecision.

_How can I forgive him for this?_

The answer came to her at once, as though spoken by a power beyond herself.

_You will forgive him because you must._

A sudden wave of calm, inexplicable certainty washed over her. Things were different now. _He _was different. She had – fleetingly – seen him change. She was certain of it. After all, his crimes were not those of a soulless, unfeeling monster. No, his acts were always driven by the most violent of emotions: lust, anger, jealousy and despair. He was the most intensely feeling person she knew. The qualities she knew he possessed – imagination, expressiveness and affection – were the very things he strove to hide because he knew that such emotions left him open and vulnerable. And he was blind to the fact that the one thing he hated – displaying weakness – was the very thing that would bring her closer to him, to awaken her empathy and compassion, and connect to him as a real human being. And, for an instant, she had seen that barrier come down, glimpsed in one unguarded moment the torturing grief lurking beneath the indifferent exterior.

But had she seen it – really? Or was she just seeing what she wanted to see, persuading herself what she wished to be true? She wanted to believe that everything would be alright – but how could she know that? How could anyone?

It did not matter. She saw it all so very clearly now. Her great duty in this world was to save him. But how to bring hope to a nature that was so relentless and implacable, a spirit so lost and fallen? He had spoken like a man in hell, capable of desperation and despair, of abandon and madness, of sin and death. She could well imagine how such a state of despair could turn his love to hate.

There was a deep, ethereal pain in her chest. She was tired; tired of fighting it, tired of pretending she was indifferent to him. There never had been any choice. Not for her. She would always help him, always make sacrifices for him.

And she could only hope that one day he would do the same for her.

Alone, in the wide room with pale moonlight streaming in through the shutters, Christine closed her eyes and clasped her hands together so tightly that her nails dug into the tender flesh. And she prayed – she prayed with all her soul.

_Lord, now more than ever I need the courage to do what it is that I must do. And yet I am afraid, Lord. My mortal flesh is weak and cowers before this mission You set before me. Think not that I am strong, that my resolve is infallible. I am so beset by doubts and tremble at Your conviction in me. The weakness of earthly preoccupations is ever in my mind. Raoul, and all my hopes that attach upon him, is a source of constant heartache. If it pleases You that my fate and his are forever sundered in this world, I am comforted by this assurance: that if not in this life, then we will meet again in Paradise. I think of the agonies your Son endured, and pray that it may grant me strength. For I know there is one in greater need of Your help, Your guidance, Your love eternal. I take it upon myself to pray for Erik and I beseech Your pity and compassion. Look upon him with kindness, Lord, and remember all that he has suffered. For I think of his immortal soul and know that I would suffer a thousand deaths if by doing so I might deliver him. _

_It is enough. I have made my choice. I cast myself entirely upon your mercy._

* * *

He lay in unspeakable despair, his mind dark with self-torture. The mindless haze of anger had passed, and had left only a deep ache of bitterness and grief in the black, empty space where his soul had once resided. Erik pressed his throbbing head against his hands. His temples were aflame with infernal pain. He wanted to sit here forever. He wanted to die.

How long had he been crouched in this cursed state, how many hours of continuous horror? He was in torment, consumed in a fire of his own making.

Erik had never felt so wretched in his life, not even when Christine had betrayed him in _Don Juan _or left him at the banks of the lake to pursue her life with Raoul. In the latter, Erik had experienced the bleak satisfaction of self-sacrifice that carried a curious sense of peace even in the midst of despair. Her betrayal in _Don Juan _had almost destroyed him, but it had come about because she loved someone else – that was something outside his control, that he could have done nothing to change.

But _this… _Nothing could be worse than knowing he had driven her away through his own actions, that in hurting, he had desired to hurt someone else, and had savagely turned on her. That was worse, far worse than sorrow or physical agony or the destruction of hope, because it was self-inflicted. He had lost that last, fragile glow of hope that had burning within him, warming him with its elusive rays. He wanted her so much he had ended up crushing her through the intensity of his love. From purity to perversion. He kept seeing it over and over in his head, the expression in her eyes – the agony and betrayal.

But even that wasn't fully the source of this crippling pain within his chest. The man – the man – God Almighty, would the image of that face ever be erased from his soul? Would the memory of spilled blood ever fade from being burnt into his memory? The ghosts of past sins were stirring in his soul, haunting him. _God, so many people, so many deaths. I remember them all – _

At that moment, he even envied the crucified Jesus. Had he the opportunity, he would willingly embrace such martyrdom, would have flung himself upon the cross and spear, spread open his hands to accept the nails being driven into his penitent flesh. But no. Such was not for him. Going on living was the real martyrdom, denied the peace and fulfilment of death. Death was a goal. Death was rest. And to die a martyr... surely that was the ultimate ecstasy in agony. To be purged by the sword and fire, by tears and blood.

But such forgiveness was not for him. He had renounced that chance the moment he had pierced steel through another man's heart and watched as his body fell to the ground, the life's blood welling from his breast. And he, his murderer, stood by and did nothing, only smiled at the man's death as the blood dried on his hands.

_I have denied myself the means to my own salvation._

Oh, what use were vain words? What use were these frenzied thoughts?

He clenched his hands into fists, his thoughts spiralling out of control as he wondered what he could have done, what could have been different –

_In that moment – with the knife in my hand – it should have been me. I should have brought it down upon myself and ended it in that moment._

Erik closed his eyes, and his mind reeled as he imagined plunging the blade into his own heart, the agonising completeness of sensation, his last sight in this world that of Christine, her dark eyes wide with grief and horror as she knelt over him, clasping him in her arms.

Someone was weeping. It was only then Erik realised it was himself. Furiously, he dashed the tears from his eyes, pressing the mask back against his lacerated face, wincing at the pain while welcoming it.

He had never felt like this before. In the past, he had always drawn a web of self-sufficiency around himself that had protected him against the world. After all, Lucifer taught that to make the mind its own centre, to shape one's own destiny, was power supreme. Erik had lived under that infernal instruction for longer than he could remember, directing his own ends, allowing no man or force to stand in the way of his desires. And he could do it again. He could give in without guilt and indulge in the actions he had so often in the past.

But he had changed. Something inside him had subtly altered without his realising it. Erik _was _different, and he didn't think he liked it.

He was aware of her presence long before he looked up. He heard the sound of a door opening, the slither of her gown against the wooden flooring, and the gentle hitch of her breathing.

"Erik," she said, her soft whisper ghosting the space between them.

He didn't move. How could he look at her after this? How could he look at anyone? "I thought you would have run far away by now."

"I'm tired of running," she said. "I'm tired of fighting. What just happened… I've been going over and over it in my head. And I think I understand at last. It wasn't me you were angry at. Was it?"

He was silent.

"Erik. Talk to me. If you want me to listen, talk to me."

This was the difficult part. And it _was_ difficult. So difficult he did not think he could find the words to express it. Because if he told her then it would be real. It would have really happened. Erik's mind picked over the words in his head, each one like a piece of shattered glass driving deeper into his skin, but a part of him welcomed the clarity of pain, knew he deserved it. He stared down at his hands, finally confronting the hard and painful truth.

"I killed him," he said slowly. "I watched his blood run over my hands. And it _burned_." His voice was softly reflective. "I had forgotten there was so much blood."

He could feel her watching him in silence. It was the most curious silence he had ever experienced; there was no anger, no judgment. Only deep and heartfelt emotion. An intense ache smote his being and he tried to still the shuddering convulsions of his heart. Sudden warmth stole through his fingers, and he looked down, startled to see Christine's hand resting against his own. The ever-so-slight contact sent ripples of sensation spiralling outward across his nerves, slowly restoring heat to the rest of him that was so very, very cold. It gave him the strength to go on.

"I know what you're thinking. Death is death, however you administer it. But it's not. I've killed men before… but this was different. I spent so many years doing it at a distance, viewing them locked away in torture chambers or a lasso around the neck – quick, clean, no blood. This – this was something else. Closer. Personal. I felt his very blood weeping from his chest – I did that. And it felt as though I lost a piece of my soul doing it. I hadn't used a knife on a man since – since the first time – the very first." He broke off for a moment, and shivered. Her fingers threaded through his. "And I'm feeling – feeling –"

"Guilt," she said quietly.

His hand jerked convulsively within hers. "I think so."

"You see, Erik." The soft conviction in her voice was almost an agony to hear. "A person can change."

"This isn't me," he muttered. For reasons he could not fathom, it was suddenly very important to hold on to this.

"Or perhaps it is you. At last."

Erik pulled away, fighting down the urge to shake her. For some reason, her quiet composure infuriated him. His voice came out coarse and rough. "No. This… it's _wrong. I'm _wrong."

"Erik, no –"

"I'm not meant to feel this way." He had turned pale with anger.

"What way?" she demanded, sudden ire flashing in her eyes. "_Human?"_

"No!" he shouted finally, the stormy emotions spilling from him like water from a breached dam. His chest seemed to be caving in on itself. "_Guilty!_ Why should I have to feel guilty and endure speechless agonies when all those people who hurt me can go on living without remorse? Do you think _they _ever stop to regret what they did and wonder if I suffered? Do you suppose they even think about it _at all? _Of course they don't. If they can overlook such cruelty, then so can I. So do not waste your time pitying me," he hissed through gritted teeth. "I can overcome this. I _will _overcome it."

"You cannot just bury your feelings –" Christine began to say, but he cut her off.

"Why not?" Honesty made him ruthless. "I did before." He swallowed hard, staring at her vindictively. "The people I destroyed… they didn't mean anything. Not to me. I spent years doing everything in my power to separate myself from those things that were human, no matter how much cruelty I had to summon. If I could detach myself from everything, the more wicked the better; then I would be truly free. And I succeeded, better than I could ever have hoped to imagine. I _was _separate."

"Why?" Her voice came out an accusing wail. "What could _possibly _make you so willing to be that horribly alone, to prevent yourself from loving or feeling _anything_? Why would you do that? To yourself? To _me?_"

"Isn't it obvious, Christine?" he bit out in frustration. "Because it was easy. Because it meant I didn't have to face up to the things I had done. None of it mattered because I wasn't really there. I might not have been happy, but I wasn't miserable either." He smiled, faintly. "I was beyond that. I was untouchable. I was immune."

"_Immune?" _Her voice shuddered with anger.

Erik saw the painful flash in her eyes, and a sudden tight, constricting feeling gripped his throat. Cold despair was beginning to eat away at the edges of passion and fury. "It was never the same after you came. You did something to me. Made me weak. Everything changed after that. And suddenly, I wasn't untouchable anymore. You took that from me. Just like you stripped me of everything else. And now what I've done… I feel all of it. Every hour, every day, it stays with me." He turned away from her. "And it's killing me."

"Good," said Christine.

The flat severity of her tone made him wince. "Good?"

Her voice softened slightly although her face was still tense and taut in the darkness of the room. "It's a blessing, Erik. To be able to feel. To know, truly know, that you have a soul and a conscience striving for your redemption. You may not think so, but I believe it's worth suffering guilt to know that."

Erik staggered away from her, half-blindly. He couldn't listen to this. What she said was something he could not imagine, could not dare to even comprehend –

_Redemption._

The one word seemed to grow between them, something huge and changing. Something life altering and forever.

A terrible emotion was welling up inside him, threatening to engulf him. He dropped into a chair, pressing his burning temples into the heels of his hands. He wanted to escape the suffocating thoughts in his head, the endless clamouring _voices _that would not cease tormenting him about the things he had done. Awful things. Unforgivable things.

_Irredeemable._

His voice was low and rasping; it felt as though his tongue had been incinerated. "If this is what it means to be human – I don't want it. I want it to stop. Oh God, I want it to stop –"

"Do you?" she asked, quietly.

He held himself tightly together, aware of a bleak and tearing sense of anguish. "I never cared before. Not like this. I feel –" he stumbled over the words, "I feel like… like I should be punished."

_Condemned to destruction – damnation –_

"In many ways, guilt is its own punishment."

"It's not enough," he responded with a terrible conviction, overcome with resignation. Jagged thorns seemed to be slicing through his heart. "I've killed so many people, Christine. I remember them all. If there was justice in this world, I would be punished. I _should _be punished." Pain closed over him, a dark, suffocating wave.

"I cannot grant you absolution, Erik," she whispered. Startled, his eyes flew up to Christine's sorrowful face. Her lips were pressed tightly together and it looked as though she was concentrating everything she had on not crying. "I want to help you, desperately, but only a priest has that kind of power. I told you once that you should think of going to Confession."

He shook his head in a kind of absent wonder. "I can't," he said. "I can't."

"_Why_?" she demanded, tearfully.

"Because that would make it too easy. If I'm suffering, I deserve it."

"_No."_

"Christine." A hint of scorn had crept into his voice. "I thought you valued honesty. You know it's true."

Her face was wrung with pain. She shook her head fiercely, but said nothing.

They were silent for a while. Erik looked away from her, hurting beyond understanding. It was easier when he couldn't see her face. He didn't want her to see the tears in his eyes. His head sank into his hands, and he sat there, still and motionless until his head ached and white lights burned his inner lids. He felt imprisoned, tormented by what he had done, yet unable to assuage his guilt by accepting the forgiveness he knew he did not deserve. Where had these feelings come from? Why would they not just _leave _him? Leave him to remain alone, alone…

In Hell.

The silence was deathly. He wondered if Christine had left him. He could not bring himself to look, fearing she was gone, fearing she had stayed. What other inmost secrets could she so innocently compel him to spill before her? For all his strength, he was completely defenceless against her. He thought pain was supposed to make you stronger, not weaker. So why wasn't he strong?

His throat was hoarse. "Taking life… it was the only power I ever had."

Her calm voice startled him; only then did he realise he had spoken aloud.

"You have power, Erik."

He opened his eyes. She had not moved from her position several feet away, her slender figure silhouetted by the moonlight that did not reach him.

He gave a bitter laugh at her assertion. "Mere fantasies. Illusions. I never had any power. Not really."

"I don't believe that. You have the ability to create things of unimaginable beauty, to walk in worlds the rest of us can only dream of. Erik, when I listen to your music, I sometimes think you must be closer to God than anyone –"

She broke off, her voice audibly trembling. For some moments, Erik found it hard to breathe. He stared unseeingly at the wooden floorboards. He wanted very much to look at her but he could not. He could not. When at last she spoke, he shuddered violently.

"You might be willing to give up on yourself, but I'm not willing to give up on you."

Several answers rose to Erik's mind: cruel, angry, defensive. But she had already gone beyond pain where he was concerned. Nothing he said could hurt her more than what he had already done today. The knowledge filled him with bitterness. His voice was weary with resignation. "Maybe you're too close to see things objectively."

"What this is – it has nothing to do with me, or what I feel. None of that matters."

"Then why?"

"Because I believe you're worth saving."

He stared at her. "You must be the only person in the world who thinks so."

"That doesn't make it any less true." In a single motion she dropped to her knees, raising her head to look at him in the eyes. "Erik, listen to me. I saw you in those cellars give up your own prospect of happiness to set me free, I see you now with a man's blood fresh on your hands and able to confront the gravity of what you did and feel real remorse. You might not understand what that means, but I do."

Erik swallowed hard, unable to bring himself to believe in her words. "It doesn't make any difference. It doesn't change anything. It doesn't change what I did to you – none of it. Do you know the kind of things I imagined doing to you while you were innocently taking singing lessons from me? The things I was _going _to do when you blindly followed me underground?"

"But you didn't. You wouldn't."

"But I wanted to!" he cried, despairingly. "You are so naïve, Christine! God, if you knew half of what I was capable of, that even now, a part of me still wants to –"

"_And you're fighting it_. The better man – the man I know you want to be – is fighting it. Even back in the Opera House, that conscience, that goodness in you held you back and let me sleep without harm."

"You think just because I didn't throw you down and ravish you that I'm not an evil man? I may not have violated you physically, but your mind – I managed to destroy that rather efficiently."

"Look at me, Erik. Do I look like a hollow, broken shell to you?"

Hesitantly, he raised his eyes to the quiet, serious girl kneeling in front of him. The pale moonlight touched her around the edges before blurring away into shrouded shadows. Her face reminded him of paintings he had seen of the Blessed Virgin: the beauty, the purity, the grave quiet strength. He saw the light of love shining in her dark eyes – not love for him, but for someone else she saw. Someone better. He closed his eyes, willing his voice to remain even.

"You left behind a fiancée and a life of peace and happiness to follow me to this place. It looks as though I was able to break you somehow."

"Erik," she said. Her gaze was both intense and searching. "Tell me truthfully. Why do you really think I'm here?"

"Because I was weak. Because I was too selfish to let you go."

"No," she said. "Not for any of those reasons. I'm here not because you tied me up and forced me here, not because you threatened the lives of the people I love… I'm here because I choose to be here. Because I know you can be a good man. And more than that, you _want _to be. I've seen it. I'm seeing it now." Her expression pierced his heart. "I cannot give you any promises or guarantees. Nothing is certain in this world. But I tell you this: there is good in you, Erik, and nothing in Heaven or Earth, in this life or the life hereafter will ever persuade me otherwise."

Erik couldn't breathe. The deep ache of anguish and hopelessness in his chest tightened, beyond agony, beyond endurance. He reached out blindly, wanting to touch her, to tell himself that she was real. Christine drew a shuddering breath but did not move, only blinked away tears, her dark lashes beaded with water. His hands tightened on her shoulders. "You mean that… you really mean it?"

Her upturned gaze never left his. "Every word."

Erik stared at her as she knelt before him, kissed by the peaceful illumination of pale light haloing her figure. His vision blurred with tears and his throat burned with the pain of suppressing them. Surely this girl was an angel sent to him by God, a living testimony that purity and goodness could still be found in this cruel, dark world. His heart was wrung with pain. Oh, how he needed her, Christine, with her ardent, compassionate heart and soul of pure white fire. She was his salvation.

How was it she stayed with him? How had he earned that right? He deserved no reprieve or easy solutions. He wanted forgiveness for what he had done, even though he knew he was not worthy of it. He simply wanted all the agony to end – he wanted his guilt over his destructive nature to be put to rest.

"I once dreamed of you forgiving me," he said slowly. "At least, I think they were dreams."

Christine, on her knees on the floor, felt the trembling tension of his hands on her shoulders and felt emotion rising within her like a flood. She struggled to keep her voice steady. "Perhaps before I can forgive you, you need to forgive yourself."

"Forgive myself?" he echoed, with a bitter laugh. "Nothing so easy. Not when you've seen the things I've seen, done the things I've done… Do you have any idea of what it's like to truly hate yourself, Christine? No, of course you don't. How could you? You have nothing to repent, you should never be sorry –"

Christine could not speak. His eyes flashed on hers, fierce and entreating, and she thought her heart would break. She closed her eyes. _Erik, oh Erik. _

His unrequited love for her combined with the agonising sorrow over his past sins made her want to fall weeping at his feet. Unbidden, words rose to her mind. _I have always held you in my heart. I will never, never doubt you again. Let me share your wounds. My angel, my dear hope_.

His expression of desperate yearning was awful and heart-rending in its transparency, like shattered glass, like a mirror –

A rush of conviction swept over her. Unthinking, her cold hands reached into the folds of her gown until they closed around something sharp and hard. When she did speak, she was startled at the calmness of her tone.

"I want you to have this back. It's yours."

In her palm rested the mirror she had offered him earlier.

Erik said nothing. He despised mirrors; hating the face they contained staring back at him. Who would want to be reminded of that? Why would Christine possibly want to remind him of that? Was it not enough to know that she loved another without adding further salt to the wound? Yet when he looked at her face, sad yet calm, the remorse came back in full force. This was Christine. Hopeful and self-sacrificing and so very innocent. There was no motive of bitterness or any sense of mocking satisfaction to be derived from her actions. So he accepted the gesture for what it was; an offering of peace, of goodwill. Hesitantly, he took the mirror from her, staring hard at the smooth surface that reflected the dim lamplight, sending out brilliant arcs of light. It blinded him.

"I think you misunderstood what I meant when I offered it to you." Christine's soft voice reopened those old wounds, the rejection of her compassion.

Erik got to his feet, tall and commanding and imposing once more. "My behaviour was boorish and ungrateful," he said harshly. "I do not wish to dwell on it."

Christine raised her eyebrows a fraction. That was the closest Erik had ever come to an apology.

She gathered her skirts together, standing up and joining him where he stood in the centre of the room. No longer in shadow, she could see where the light highlighted the severe edges of his porcelain mask. Yet it was the exposed half of his face that drew her gaze. No longer the savage and cruel murderer, his expression was lit with thought and emotion, and… peace. For the time, peace. This was the angel who composed divine music, the poet who poured out his soul's longing in beautiful language, the man who was speechless with agony at the thought of his guilt, and trembling to hope at the chance of his redemption.

Erik could feel her watching him, and wanted to say something. But where to even begin? He had no words to express what she had given him tonight: hope, in the depths of darkness. She must know it, anyway. She must understand what was unsaid. Turning the mirror over and over in his hands, his mind struggled to comprehend why it was she had not left him, he who had given her so much cause to.

"Why are you so good to me?" The words left him in a confused rush.

"I thought I already told you," she said, her voice very soft.

"Christine…" He drew a deep breath. "I want to ask you something."

She looked at him, eyes wide and inquiring.

"If my face had been perfect… would you have loved me?"

He felt his heart beating the silence, the seconds.

"I don't know," she said.

* * *

**(Review! Review! Review!)**


	22. Truth Hurts

**The Mask and Mirror**

_So we move  
We change by the speed of the choices that we make  
And the barriers are all self-made  
That's so retrograde _

_Are you drowning or waving?  
I just need you to save me  
Should we try to get along?  
Just try to get along _

(Bush – Out of this World)

Chapter 22

Things subtly changed between them after that. Erik could not say _how _exactly, but there was definitely something altered. Even though they had not spoken of it, the remembrance was ever-present whenever they were together. He glimpsed a new tenderness in Christine's eyes when she looked at him, a certain sympathy that had never been present before. And this after she had seen a man's blood on his hands. After he had lied to her. After he had taken her by force. After he had threatened the lives of those she loved. In spite of how uncertain and difficult and confused everything was between them, there was one thing Erik knew with a brilliant clarity.

She was the closest thing to an angel he would find on this earth.

Yes, she was something rare and precious in this nineteenth-century Sodom, untouched by the uninhibited abandon and immorality that was rife outside these shuttered windows. Free and untainted by any shadows or the dark memory of sins that could never be washed away in this life, perhaps not even the next. He longed only to be near her, to breathe the same air she breathed, to lay his hands on the objects she touched, as though by doing so, he might take into himself some of that purity and harmony that she was blessed enough to experience so unconsciously. Just to be in her presence was enough. His feelings for her had transcended bodily desires.

At least, so he thought.

Until he awoke one night, his body shuddering still, the sweat cooling on his skin as he waited for his breathing to slow. He opened his eyes. The night was unbearably hot and muggy, doing little to ease his agitated mind and body. Erik rolled over in the narrow bed and pressed his face into the pillow, inhaling the starch and faded amber smell, the fabric coarse and rough against his unmasked face. The thin blanket – it was too hot to sleep under anything else – was tangled around his legs. Further discomfort to inflamed skin already acutely aware of every sensation. Erik did not need a lot of sleep, but he did not appreciate having the few hours he did snatch becoming new bouts of mental and physical torment.

He had dreamed again of Christine, or rather him and Christine _together… _in every sense. The very thought of her consumed him. Erik rubbed a hand across his eyes but the memories persisted: the sheets rumpled beneath them, Christine kissing him willingly, hungrily, their bodies wound together in shameless ecstasy… He suppressed a groan. An impossible dream.

_But why is it impossible?_

That inner voice tempted him to abandon, to sin. His mind verged on madness at the possibility. It would be so easy…

He knew Christine did not lock her door at night – the frequent times he had met her in the hall coming out of her bedroom confirmed that fact – unbelievable as it was, incomprehensible as it was, she_ trusted _him_. _Trusted, at least, that he would never violate the sanctity of her privacy or virtue. There would be no physical barrier to stop him if he desired to go to her. He could imagine it now; entering her private room, Christine rising in the bed dressed only in a silken nightgown, her hair in beautiful disarray. A couple of steps and he could cross the room, cover her body with his and tear the flimsy nightgown from her and take her in an instant. His body shuddered in agonised longing at the prospect.

But Christine was worth more than that. She was not some shallow opera wench to be used and forgotten. She was worth time, and patience. He knew this; the poet, the musician, the lover of beauty worshipped her with a holy reverence he had never afforded to any divinity. But the primitive, the man, the conquistador craved her; she was a constant hunger in the blood.

He wondered if she would be so willing to think highly of him if she knew the secret thoughts that burned within him. Would she recoil in loathing and disgust? Or would the heated blood rush to her face as she dared contemplate what he would do to her, the things he could make her feel…

Or not. After all, he was pursuing a woman who loved another.

Another!

Erik sat bolt upright, seething anger coursing through his body like an electric current.

De Chagny was nothing but a callow boy, an aristocratic dandy who knew nothing of love beyond mere youthful infatuation. It could not compare to the full-blooded passion Erik harboured for Christine; the ardour borne from his more advanced years – oh, how he would worship her if she would only let him, instead of wasting her heart on one who could never appreciate its worth. His heart burned fiercely within him. De Chagny! Would the man's cursed shadow ever be between them?

"You still hate it, don't you?" she had said one day when the name had dropped from her lips.

"Hate what?"

"My saying his name."

"Yes," he said, simply, and that was that.

The sheet still wrapped around his lower body, Erik glanced across the room. The windows were already thrown wide open, the now-familiar thrum and beat of the Kasbah sounding in the heavy night air. Dance, ritual, shadows. Drums rolling through the ground like thunder. Flickering lights were visible through the inadequate strip of fabric that served as a curtain, promising magic, madness, passion. All there for the taking. Except from the one he most wanted it from.

Erik fell back against the bed, the dancing pinpricks of light still visible against his closed lids. In the cloying nocturnal heat and heavy scents of incense, the room seemed to spin beneath him, a gravitating orbit centred around his bed. Waking dreams and longing imaginings unfolded in his consciousness, silken and seductive and elusive as the girls in the street that peered through their veils, revealing so little yet promising so much. Girls who could almost be Christine with their dark eyes and tendrils of dark hair escaping from their shawled restraints. In this witching hour of semi-darkness and illusion, he could imagine anything was possible.

He closed his eyes against the image of Christine sleeping peacefully in the next room.

There would be no sleep for him tonight.

* * *

For Christine, the cathartic outpouring of emotion was still too bewildering to think too closely over. Something simple yet so complicated. Like his music, it touched her in a way she could not understand, that words were not capable of expressing. What had happened between them was so shattering, so awful and wonderful yet heart-breaking, that everything else seemed to pale in comparison. After the sameness and day-to-day routine of the last few months, that supreme moment of confession was bigger than anything. And it terrified her.

She realised now that this imposed isolation, him being the only person she encountered every day, was affecting her. Healthy or not, he was becoming her whole world, always in her thoughts even when he wasn't there in person. It was dangerous, she knew, to let this continue, but she saw no way of making it otherwise. It was the price she would have to pay for helping him. And she _was _helping him. That was beyond all doubt. Recently, she had glimpsed him staring at her with unspeakable gratitude and tremulous hope when he thought she was not looking. However stern and sarcastic and domineering he might be generally, those rare moments were what she clung to, something that no mask could ever hide.

Yet she was not completely naïve. She had had her illusions shattered too many times to think that things were now completely well between them. She could not help but wonder when this temporary peace between them would come to an end.

As it turned out, she did not have long to wait.

They were packing to move into new lodgings. This new development was both a relief and a secret source of anxiety. Although used to modest accommodation, Christine had never liked the boarding house with its dust, the constant noise from outside. The thought of relocating to somewhere more peaceful, with spaces and gardens that would allow for dreams, for meditative silences, filled her with longing. But the thought of going with Erik to the middle of nowhere was a distinctly unsettling one. At least in the Opera House, she could escape aboveground, to the bustle and routine of rehearsals and the company of the other ballet rats. Where could she retreat to here?

Christine looked around the small sitting room lit by the scorching afternoon sun. Half filled packing crates were piled haphazardly in the middle of the floor. Heat drifted visibly in the air, a hazy somnolence. Even the noise of the market outside seemed to hold a kind of languorous, lethargic quality. That middle afternoon lull. She felt it herself today. The exertion of packing and running up and down stairs had caused perspiration to bead along the back of her neck. She leaned forward and lifted her heavy curls, dabbing at the flushed skin with a cloth until she saw Erik watching the movement with a fixed, almost mesmerised intensity. She let her hair fall down at once. He shook his head slightly, as though to clear it.

"I was looking for the paperwork," he said coolly. "Some bills. I believe I left it in my coat."

"I'll get it," she said at once, glad for an excuse to move. "Where is it?"

"It should be in one of the pockets," he said carelessly.

She went over to where his greatcoat was draped over the back of one of the chairs. Her fingers brushed against paper in the breast pocket and she pulled it out, unfolding it slowly.

"Is this it?"

It was not what she had been looking for after all, but an empty envelope, addressed to –

_M. le Vicomte de Chagny._ Astonishment rooted her to the spot. What was Raoul's address doing in Erik's pocket? Christine stared, feeling her heart catch in her throat.

It was writing, _her _writing. From months ago…

_Beneath the cellars of the Opera, the long, despairing night and the winter cold searing my bones – _

She looked up at Erik, her eyes wide and wondering. "But this is… I wrote this to Raoul… and you…" Her voice trailed off. There was no movement or expression behind the black mask. He was standing very still, broad shoulders slightly bowed beneath black leather. An avenging angel.

"Erik…" she said very slowly. "You did… give him the letter? Didn't you, Erik? Tell me you did!"

He didn't say anything.

She found herself moving backwards. "Oh my God," she said.

"Christine –" he began sternly.

"You _lied _to me!"

He turned away from her, but not before she saw his eyes: cold and hard, glittering like polished black stone pulled from the depths of the earth. There was no remorse in there, no satisfaction, nothing. He shrugged his heavy shoulders. "Everyone lies, Christine. It's the reason for lying that matters."

"And what _possible_ reason could you have for this? I didn't tell him anything about where I was or where you were taking me – I told him nothing!"

"_Except that you still cared!"_ he shouted, at last aroused to real anger. "How do think I felt being the carrier of a letter that shattered all my hopes? Did you really expect me to send it, to give him one more thing I don't have?"

"What you don't have?" she echoed in disbelief. "You have _everything _and act as though it's nothing! I have given up my life in the hope I might be able to help you, and for what? For this?" She turned away, appalled.

Erik moved quickly towards her and spun her round to face him; warm hands sliding up her bare arms. She stared at him in shock. The envelope drifted unheeded to the floor. When had he started touching her of his own accord? When had she _allowed _him to? But this wasn't tenderness or affection. This was pain and fury and madness and endless falling. He was looking at her as though he loathed her, a wild expression in his dark eyes. "What right have you to judge me – when this is all your fault?"

"_My _fault? How can you say –?"

"You were supposed to help me!" he exploded. "Your whole reason for being here was to help me become a better person, to _fix me, _but you're the very thing that drives me into sin! I thought you were my salvation and find instead that you are my Eve!"

"You were never supposed to read that letter!" cried Christine.

Erik's eyes narrowed. "Oh, I see," he hissed in her ear, voice all silken fury. She shivered. "So you thought you'd break my heart without having the courtesy of telling me yourself? That so long as _I _didn't know you were prolonging my agony, that would somehow make it alright? Oh, it's only poor, pitiful Erik, _he_ doesn't need to know that he's about to have his heart ripped out of his chest!"

She tried to pull away, but the movement merely brought her into closer contact with his body. _Why is it, _she thought wildly, _That whenever we argue, we come to be so close? _Her voice sounded shrill in her own ears. "Well, how do you think Raoul feels? It was hard enough leaving him but now – oh God – he doesn't even know where I am. He doesn't even know I still care for him. He has no idea –"

Erik smiled, a low poisonous smile, as a bloated spider might on discovering some innocent prey having become entangled in its web. "Well, it'll be a test of the endurance of his ardour, won't it? Look on it as an opportunity, Christine."

She could not believe they were here again. Had she been naïve, to think that he could change so quickly? She knew what he was, all the things he had done. So why was she feeling so betrayed? Had she really convinced herself he was different now? She sucked in a breath, clenching her fists as she fought down the awareness of his warm hands curled around her shoulders in a fierce and unrelenting hold. "You claim you would do anything for me – but only when it suits you, it seems. That isn't love. That's control. Do you really want to be loved, Erik? Or do you just want something you can use and have power over? Did you prefer it when I was merely some automaton bowing down to your wishes?"

"You know that isn't true," he flashed.

"_Do _I? How can I trust anything you say now?"

For a moment he was silent, then it was as though shutters came down, abruptly quelling the fire that had galvanised him into anger. The anger remained, but it was a cold and glittering fury that manifested itself in the chillingly impassive expression on his face. "I see," he said, in an emotionless tone. "Trust. Just as you were so trustworthy in betraying me before the entire Opera House."

"You drove me to it!" She felt ashamed of the words the moment she uttered them.

"Ah." He sneered derisively. "So hatred makes it justifiable. But love doesn't?"

"I think we've both agreed that our definitions of love are relative," she said, more cruelly than she intended.

She shivered as Erik hissed through his teeth, his breath hot against her face. Unwillingly, she remembered that first night she had seen him beneath the cellars of the Opera, his hands moving in a slow and sensual caress over her body, his voice slumberous with barely suppressed passion and desire –

Christine jerked back – or tried to – his hold on her shoulders was like a vice, ten points of fire against her skin. A rush of anger swept through her. Wasn't it enough that he had possessed her mind; must he invade her body too?

"Why are you doing this?" she asked hoarsely.

The reply was swift and expected. "Because I love you."

"But not enough to let me go, Erik!"

"You _will _love me," he said fiercely. "Wouldn't I do anything for you? Wouldn't I die for you? I cannot abide shallow platonic affection, Christine – it is all or nothing. You knew that when you agreed to come with me – you must have known!"

"How can you talk to me like this? You know I am engaged to another man. It is selfish – no, more than selfish – downright blasphemous. It goes against the sacred union of man and wife in the eyes of God –"

"You are not married yet, Christine."

"I would be had you not come back into my life."

There was too much truth in what she said for him to deny it. He drew a sharp breath; she could feel the muscled tension in his chest beneath the pearly shirt as he inhaled, silk on marble. The heat was incinerating her, slowly drowning her in the enveloping scents of leather and incense and intoxicating darkness. She suddenly thought of Raoul's cool sea-blue eyes, the gentleness of his arms as he held her, the comforting kindness in his voice.

"I just want to _see _him," she said, her voice thin. "That's all. I just want to know that he's alright."

Erik was glaring at her with five kinds of Hell in his eyes. "And you don't care whether I'm alright?"

Her eyes blazed. "_Of course I care_."

Erik did not seem to be listening. He was looking at her meditatively, his voice softer now, and reflective, which was somehow worse than when he had been shouting. "I could kill him, put my hands around his neck and crush the life from his worthless body, but it still wouldn't make you forget, would it? It would only make you hate me, if you didn't already."

Her silence was answer enough. She could not meet his longing gaze that was fierce, intense, painful. "Yet why," he continued, "Do I still feel like I would rather be hated by you, than loved by anybody else?"

Christine could hear the breathing in her own ears, thick and heavy. The endless black of his mask hovered above her, and there was only the blackness and the scorching fire of his hands that seemed to burn through silk onto her bare skin. The world seemed to tilt unsteadily. She could not _think _with him standing so close –

"Release your hold on me," she ordered quietly.

His voice was harsh with passion. "Only when _you_ release your hold over me."

Oh God, why did this have to be so _hard? _"I know you cannot help loving me, Erik. It would be unfair to condemn you for that. But you can determine what you do about it – and it seems you continue to behave selfishly."

He did let her go then, much to her relief. She moved away, needing space to breathe, to still the suffocating palpitations of her heart. Erik's dark silhouette blocked the sun, like an eclipse. He burned her eyes.

He was looking at her, she thought, rather like a cat might look at a mouse before killing it. "Do you know what it's like wanting the one thing you can never have?"

But she thought there was more fury than love in his gaze, a raw, jealous need. She was overcome by a savage urge to pull that hateful black mask away, to really see him, face to face –

"I know you've had a hard life. But that does not give you license to act cruelly, without regard to others."

The effect of her words was startling; he looked as though she had struck him. "You dare to accuse _me _of cruelty? After everything you've done to me? I should hate you for causing me so much pain, for what you've reduced me to… yet I can't. Even now, I wouldn't renounce it if given the chance. Does it satisfy you to know that, Christine? That I'm your _willing _prisoner?"

"You think this gives me _satisfaction?_"

"You have the ability to elevate or destroy me with a mere word or a look. Not many people possess such power."

"I don't want it, I never wanted it – I never wanted any of this –" The words tumbled out of her, frantic, near gasping. _Why _couldn't she just walk away? "I'm a prisoner just as much as you are, Erik –"

Without even thinking of what she was doing, her hands came up, pushing at his chest in helpless fury. His heart seemed to leap beneath her fingers in response, his fierce, furious heart that had been the start of all this –

His scorn and anger blazed. "Do you really think you can hurt me?"

Her hands fell away, dropping limply to her sides. Was this how it would always be between them now? The moments of divine hope and understanding marred by the lies, the arguments and the bitterness?

Her mind cast itself back to that night in Erik's room, her kneeling at his feet in desperate agony as he stared down at her half-blinded by grief and remorse. _I must remember this, I must remember…_

"Even after everything you've done – you're still a man. Still flesh and blood. And that means I can still get through to you. And that I still have a chance to save you."

Beneath the mask he was smiling, but not pleasantly. "And what makes you think I _need_ saving? I am what I am. Perhaps I have no secret longing to be saved from myself."

"I think we both know that isn't true."

Then the fire in him seemed to die. Christine watched the almost static energy that trembled through his body wither away until he seemed nothing more than a hollow shell.

"What have you done to me?" he asked, his voice haggard with despair.

A moment ago he had been alive and intense with malice and fierce hatred. Now she looked into his dark, empty eyes, and was overcome by an intense feeling of pity. "I said it to you before – you can be a good man, Erik."

"You really believe that, do you?"

"I have to," she said.

He gave a dark, bitter laugh. "Have you ever asked yourself why it matters to you so much?"

"I've never denied you matter to me," she answered, which wasn't really an answer at all.

"Not as much as _he _does."

She pressed a hand against her head, aware of an aching pain in her temples. "Is there no hope of you two reconciling your differences?"

"Only one," he said. "For one of us to die."

She shuddered at the thought of Raoul dying, she could not bear it… but if _he _were to die… Christine felt as though her lungs were compressing in on themselves. God, she could no more wish Erik's death than she could wish her own annihilation. However much she might hate it, he was a part of her, and she would never be able to escape him, never, never. She thought he had died once and it had nearly destroyed her. She had been a mere ghost, haunted by a memory.

Christine clenched her fists.

_I wish I had never met him,_ she thought savagely_._

But no, that wasn't true, either. Not anymore.

She looked up at Erik. Her vision wavered, turning his dark figure to a rippling shadow. _Her_ shadow. One that she could never shake herself free of. Unspeakable despair rose within her.

"You've already killed me," she said flatly. "The letter was just the final nail in the coffin."

Then she turned and fled the room without looking back.

* * *

Erik stared down at the discarded envelope on the floor. Such a small thing, really. A mere scrap of paper. Who could have thought that it would symbolise the end of hope, the end of salvation, the end of his world. He was overcome by crushing darkness. What a fool he had been. Why hadn't he burnt it, watched the flames curling the paper up at the edges and so eradicated its existence entirely? Why had he merely shoved it, unthinking, into one of his pockets, why had she had to _find _it?

He had endured anger, hatred and bitter scorn, but none of it had touched him as deeply as Christine's hurt. Just when he thought there was hope of –

Erik ground his teeth together.

What diabolical power was it that shaped his destiny so cruelly? What was this vast, pitiless universe that could bring forth only evil?

He kicked aside one of the crates savagely, grimly satisfied at the sound of splintering wood that reached his ears through the vague throb and hum of his heartbeat. After all, everything else had fallen apart. The sun was hot on the back of his neck, making him dizzy, the disordered array of books and clothes blurring out of focus.

_She'll never forgive me, _he thought. _Not for this. _Killing the man at the market had been a horrific thing – he flinched at the memory – but that had been impulse: pure, quick, unthinking. Not this cold deliberation, this cruel forethought. If he had wanted to hurt Christine, he had succeeded. He knew more about her now than he had even a couple of months ago; knew just what words to say that would cut her deeply, knew exactly what weapons to use against her. He had never _wished _to hurt Christine, but he had always been _able _to. They had been thrown together, familiar strangers in an odd, self-imposed isolation that had narrowed the world down to just him and Christine – him and Christine, the way he had always wanted it to be.

_But not like this._

He had said he wanted her here to help him – but he realised it had never been about help, it had been about the possession of a soul. The knowledge ripped up unclosed wounds with a terrible force. And Christine had known it, the accusation in her voice –

_Did you prefer it when I was merely some automaton bowing down to your wishes?_

"But I gave you paradise," he muttered senselessly. "It was you who cast me into Hell."

He found himself escaping into memory, into those days when he had been only a voice to her, a voice without a face. Oh, how she had sang with her heart and soul, not knowing him, yet loving him for his tuition, his comfort in the midst of grief. Erik put his hands over his face, tears trickling through his fingers.

_I would give everything I have, _he thought wildly, _just to have her sing with me as she used to – oh, once again! Can it _never _be?_

But there was no hope to look forward to – no eternity – no life to come. There was here, and only here, these endless weary hours. He was lonely beyond endurance. To be deprived of union with one's beloved was to know despair. The blinding pain within him was the ultimate agony of love denied.

_I thought once that Heaven was within my grasp. Now I see only the abyss. There can be no salvation for me._

Erik stared blankly around the light room, feeling the fierce sting of tears against the bright sunlight. He had been standing here for what seemed like hours before he realised what it was that he had been waiting for.

For her to come to him.

_And what if she doesn't?_

The response came instantly.

_Then go to her instead._

Did he dare? He could remain here, waiting as day turned to endless night unfolding around him. A long-familiar embrace that was both comfort and torment. Protection and suffocation. But no more. Too long had he been in the dark.

Like an automaton, he rose stiffly and opened the door. Blindly, he walked down the corridor, wondering whether this was madness, whether she would speak to him or even look at him, if he even deserved her forgiveness after hurting her so many times, in so many different ways…

Her door was open. Of course it was open. Erik hesitated, his heart pounding. Then he thought, _to hell with it, _and without knocking, walked into the room.

The shutters had been closed; it was cooler and darker, only allowing the narrowest strip of burning light into the room. She was sitting in a chair against the table, turning something over and over in her hands that flashed with crystalline brightness in the restricted sun. She looked as though she had been crying. Although he wanted her to be happy, he could not deny that grief became her. It deepened and enriched her beauty, conveying a depth and strength it could never have acquired had her life been a fully pampered and pleasurable one. Old modus operandi, deriving the smallest comfort from intense agony.

_Does it gratify you to know that? To know that you shattered her existence, that you destroyed her even as you resurrected her?_

Her dark eyes were fixed on his, and he swallowed hard, aware of a deep ache somewhere in his soul. If he had ever doubted just how much injury he had done her, the testimony was there, facing him. Those eyes were far, far too old for a girl of eighteen. They were veritable wells of sorrow and heartache and experience that most people passed a lifetime without ever knowing. _As would she, if she had never met you._

Erik tensed his shoulders, hardening his resolve. The time for remorse and useless wishes had long gone. The path they had started down had gone too far for either one of them to turn back now. They were bound to see this through to the end, wherever it led them.

_How will this end? _he wondered dimly. _Will she succeed in pulling me up to Heaven, or will I drag her down into Hell? _

Or would they end up somewhere else entirely, in a place that was neither of the two?

"Why didn't you tell me?" Her tone was hollow, almost too emotionless to be a question.

Erik inhaled a breath, steeled himself. "Because I didn't want to see you hurt," he said. "I hope you didn't think I was lying about that. I never wished your sufferings to equal mine."

"Yet they always seem to."

_The nights in her dressing room of scented darkness and roses, watching her longingly through the silvered glass mirror, the ecstasy and the adoration – _

"You thought me an angel once, Christine."

"I still do," she said. "I just don't know what kind anymore."

He knew he deserved it, but the words still stung. God, how had he thought himself strong enough for this? He walked across the room and took a seat, not wishing to appear too imposing by hovering over her. Erik smiled ironically. Who was he fooling? He was only sitting down because he doubted his legs were capable of holding him.

They sat facing each other across the table. Christine sighed and put down what she had been holding. At first, he had thought it was the mirror she had given him after – he winced – the marketplace, but he saw now it was a diamond ring on a band of silver. He had never seen her wearing it before…

"Do you forgive me?"

Christine leaned her head against one hand, and he saw her eyes were heavy-lidded and pearlescent with a fatigue that had nothing to with the heat or stifling atmosphere of the room. It was a shattered, bone-deep weariness of the soul. "I don't know," she said, finally. "I'm just – I'm tired, Erik. I'm so tired. You say you want forgiveness, yet you repeat the same mistakes over and over. How many times do you expect me to keep coming back after everything you do, no matter how painful or terrible?"

"Christine," he said, forcefully trying to keep his voice calm. He fought down the urge to shake her. "I'm trying here. At least give me something."

Her eyes widened in disbelief. "What are you expecting? I want to help you, Erik, and I'm _trying, _but it's so hard! You – you seem to think I'm some divine intercessor, but I'm not – I'm just _me, _and I don't even know what I'm doing! I thought…" She made a choked sound in her throat and seemed to find it difficult to go on. "I thought after what you said about feeling guilty, that things were different between us. That _we _were different. I began to think I could really trust you."

"And I want you to, more than anything –"

She continued, not listening to him. "But now, after the letter, I just feel so foolish for believing…"

"I'm sorry for destroying the letter." Erik was surprised to hear himself apologise, even more surprised to realise that he meant it. Or perhaps it wasn't such a surprise, after all. Had he just delivered the damn thing months ago, none of this would have happened.

Christine raised her head and looked up at him with tearful eyes. "Is that why you think I'm angry? I can understand why you did it, Erik. But you lied to me. And that – that is a lot harder to forgive."

"I can't change what I did in the past," he said bitterly. "It was months ago." An expression of bewilderment and pained hurt flashed across her face. "I know," he added hastily, "I know that isn't an excuse, but it's the best I have. I was just so… angry." He sighed deeply, and tried to convey his feelings into words. It was difficult, but harder still was the prospect of her never understanding, and destroying any hope of a new start between them. After all, that was the reason he had come to her instead of retreating into himself and dark ruminations as he had so often done in the past. "Christine, I'm not perfect. God knows I'm anything but. I'm probably the last person in the world that you should put your trust in, but I'm really trying. I've just… never had to consider anyone else before. And sometimes, it's difficult to remember."

She nodded slowly, and he knew she was taking in what he had said. He clenched his hands in his lap and waited for her to respond. Her dubious expression smoothed itself out into something softer, and Erik felt a tiny spark of hope flare inside him.

"I wish you had said all this before."

How was he to explain that his first response was always the defensive one? That it was far easier to resort to anger than to succumb to pain and vulnerability? But it was far more complicated than that. The reason he kept driving her away the moment they became closer was because a part of him felt he deserved to be punished; to be left alone to wallow in his guilt and sadness without the support he was not worthy of receiving. However much he professed to loathe mankind, it could never come close to how much he loathed himself. He looked down, trying to keep his voice impassive.

"Would it have made any difference?"

"It would have made things easier. If I'd known, I wouldn't have… retaliated. But it's hard. You can hurt me so easily, Erik, and after Raoul… that's not something I'm used to. I try not to let it get to me, but I'm not perfect, either."

"No," he said, with a boldness that surprised him. "And that's what makes you even more remarkable."

He was startled when Christine suddenly reached across the table and placed a hand over his. Her fingers were warm against his own, sending a vivid pulse, the hope of new life through his blood.

"So we'll both try," she said softly. "And when one of us does something, or says something hasty or foolish, we won't become angry and try to hurt each other. Not anymore."

Erik dared a glance at her. She was smiling; a tremulous yet genuine smile that filled him with a warmth he had never thought to feel again. At one time, an argument like this could never have been resolved. Was this all that had been needed? A moment of honesty, of understanding?

"Christine," he said. "There's something I have to tell you."

She looked up inquiringly. Erik silently cursed. What had prompted him to say _that? _But she was watching, waiting for him to speak. He could hear the words clearly in his head, echoing with a resounding clarity; _The Vicomte de Chagny is here in Algeria. He's been searching for you all this time, he almost found you at the marketplace – _but the words seemed to dry to ashes in his mouth. He inhaled the bitter air, dust and dryness sealing his throat. Grim resignation came over him. So this was to be his trial by fire, then. Either purge himself at the price of losing her, or commit the sin of omission in order to prolong this – this –

Were there any words to describe this state they were in, this eternal tug-of-war between the blessed and the damned?

_She has a right to choose._

_But I know what her choice will be. She'll go back – back to him. Of course she would._

So that was it. That old possessiveness won, as it always must. He couldn't tell her. Not yet. Not when they were just starting to repair the damage he had once thought irreversible.

"It doesn't matter."

She sighed. "You don't trust me, Erik."

"No, I –"

"You don't trust anyone."

"Can you blame me?"

"No. I know what you're life has been –"

His voice was weary. "You know. But you don't _understand_. Do you ever have the sense that you're completely alone in the world? That no one else thinks or speaks the way you do, and if anyone knew how you really felt… they'd dismiss you as mad?"

"All the time," she said.

_It's not the same, _he thought miserably. _She's never been truly alone. Not the way I have. _He closed his eyes. _Will always be._

He opened his eyes. Christine was looking at him intently, her face pale with unhappiness. "Have you never had any friends, Erik? Not anyone?"

A sudden, searing pain pierced his heart at the memory of Nadir, startling and unexpected in its intensity. _My guide. My friend. My betrayer. _For a moment, it was hard to breathe. "There was a man, once. He was my conscience, my better half. I cared for him more than he ever – but he betrayed me too, in the end."

"I know what it's like, Erik." Her voice was soft, wistful almost. "To feel like you have no one. To feel pain that nobody else understands."

"And I was responsible for most of that pain," he replied despairingly.

"Erik –"

"No. It's true. I destroyed you. I destroy everything I touch."

"I don't believe that." He had never thought her gentle voice capable of conveying such surety. "But the way you spoke to me earlier… I think you wanted me to hate you. Why?"

"Because I deserve it," he responded flatly. "Christine, you bought me that mirror and it showed me what I am. What I always will be. A monster. A lost cause."

"Only if you're willing to let yourself become that. You cannot expect to be redeemed at once. It takes someone of – of extraordinary will and belief to have lived the life you have, and still retain a core of humanity. And it takes even greater strength to save your soul, or more importantly, to _want_ to save yourself."

Erik could not bring himself to frame words, or thoughts. He could only marvel at the intensity of the strong, compassionate force enclosed within her slight frame. Never had he met anyone who was her equal. She was unique in her sincerity and blinding trust of others: something dear and holy, a light of redemption in this dark world. God, how he longed for her conviction. But he did not have it, so he must ask, "And if I'm not strong enough?"

She did not waver even for a moment. "It's easier to believe that, isn't it? To pretend you haven't changed, to just cling to what you know and not even try. No, the difficult part is struggling through every day, having to live out your penance and face up to what you've done. To strive to be the better man. And you might want to lie down and give up or try to convince me there is no good left in you, but I will never stop believing in you, Erik. Never."

He looked up at her in wonder. Her face was very pale in the ray of bright light, the mass of dark hair falling over her shoulders. She seemed almost a spirit, and he reached out in an entreating movement, as though terrified of her leaving him again. She was the one light in the blackness of his life; a shining emblem of hope and goodness and purity. He could not lose her now. He could not. When she was with him, he would never release her, when she was away from him, he would crawl from the ends of the earth to be at her side.

"So tell me, Erik. Do you want to be saved?" She stood up, sending a stirring of sand and dust with her movement that caught the sunlight in small patterns of iridescence.

"Think about it," she said quietly.

He could not think. Only stare, and feel his heart swell in a surge of intense sensation. He could never forget how much he loved her but at times like this he was forcefully reminded of it. These moments were like silent revelations, for he realised once again that he not only loved her, but he admired her. Not because of her beauty or her voice, but because of her kindness, something so rare in this world, and rare for him especially. Simple kindness that gained nothing for itself, and gave up rather than simply gave. He felt proud then, proud of knowing her and her ability to hope beyond all hope. She was the best and truest person he had ever encountered, and she seemed entirely unaware of it. If she only knew…

"Wait," he said.

She turned and looked back at him.

"What you said… about doing what's easy. You don't choose to do things because they are easy. You're driven to what's broken and imperfect, because you want to help. And you do it because you're strong – strong enough to bear it – even though it may not feel like it, sometimes."

He stopped speaking then, for Christine was staring at him. Her pale face was still but her eyes were shining with an emotion he could not name. Then she did something she had never done before; she leaned forward and kissed him on the forehead. The black mask ended at his hairline but he could feel the touch of her lips against the fabric and he released a shuddering breath. She had pulled away a moment later, but he imagined he could still feel the mark of her lips burning against him, like a damned creature might feel the brand of a Holy Object.

"Erik," she said, and her gaze was filled with yearning. "Why –"

Then she broke off, but he knew what she had been going to say. _Why can't things always be like this; why can't we always have this understanding and not hurt each other; why – _

But she only smiled a little sadly, then she had turned away, she was leaving…

Erik remained still, a maelstrom of conflicted feelings whirling inside him. Christine had forgiven him, which was more than he could have hoped for, more, he knew, than he deserved. They had agreed upon a new beginning, and she thought he was not beyond hope of redemption. His gratitude toward her was beyond overwhelming, he could have wept with joy.

But on the other side of the coin…

He still had not told her about the Vicomte. And now he never could. It might be wicked of him, but it was no more wicked than the desire to pull her into his arms for reasons that had nothing to do with comfort, or to imagine doing things to her that he would never dare admit outside his darkest dreams –

Yes, the road to redemption was a rocky one, and Erik knew he was by no means a reformed man. _Even now, _he thought darkly, _I know I would exchange all hope of Heavenly forgiveness for one night with her in my bed._

He watched Christine walk away through hooded eyes, his hands curling into fists at his sides.

Yes, he might long for her with a spiritual reverence but he still continued to burn.


	23. The Road to Hell

**The Mask and Mirror**

_I've been watching me fall for it seems like years  
__Watching me grow small, I watch me disappear  
__Slipping out my ordinary world, out my ordinary life  
__Yeah, slipping out the ordinary me into someone else's life_

(The Cure, Watching Me Fall)

_The road to Hell is paved with good intentions._

(Proverb)

_Will all great Neptune's ocean wash this blood clean from my hand?_

(Macbeth, Act II, Scene I)

Chapter 23

Days blurred together now. Time had lost all meaning as something of linear progression. He didn't think about the future, because to think of the future meant having to acknowledge the past. And he couldn't do that, he _wouldn't._

Sometimes, he felt in control. On those days he visited inns, spoke politely with people, knowing just who to talk to, exchanged money for information and returned to his companions with the illusion of something having been achieved. Philippe had once said to him that money could buy anything and people who disagreed were either lying, or had never had enough of it. And it was true.

When he was out of control, he stared at himself in the mirror, not recognising the haunted, intense stranger that gazed back at him. Or he would lie on the hard, uncomfortable bed, his body numb and he was grateful for the numbness. Then it was the world that was wrong, not his fault, he wasn't to blame.

He wasn't the one that was wicked, degraded, wrong.

And so it went on. Day in, day out. Sunrise to sunset gone backwards. In Paris, Raoul had always been awoken by his valet at half past nine exactly, with a tray balancing coffee and the morning's paper. Now his days tended to start when the sun went down; he discovered more in those shadowy, elusive after-hours than he ever did in the glaring heat of the Mustapha day.

At least, that was what he half-heartedly told himself.

He had given up a long time ago, if he was honest with himself. He knew that he would never see Christine again. He was simply enacting the motions, because there was nothing else left. Something in him had broken. He was hollowed out. An empty shell. Filled with nothing.

No. If there was nothing, there would be no pain.

He didn't want to care any more. Not when it made no difference. Not when morals and good intentions meant nothing in this cold, dark world. A world he had had no wish to become a part of, a world that had been forced upon him.

This - this mission… It was deadening - _killing _him. Raoul closed his eyes. He wanted to escape the burdens of his life. There was no peace to be found in this bleak world. Were it not for Christine, he would not need to live at all. It would be a relief now, to end it all. She was the only thing keeping him here, chaining him to existence.

Did he want to die?

No, but he would if he had to. The idea just didn't bother him as much as it used to. Just being awake hurt. _Breathing _hurt. The future was long, and endless. And he was lost. Lost in a way that had nothing to do with the winding, labyrinthine streets of Alger, where he found himself one evening, for once, accompanied by his companions. They had insisted on coming, knowing that today was different, that there was a chance, a possibility of _something. _It hung in the air, potent and unspoken. The streets seemed to lure them, heavy with promise. All except for Raoul. He was not so foolish as to give himself false hope.

He was coming to know the town better than he ever would have imagined, long hours spent familiarising himself with the backstreets and alleys, following a trail long dead and gone. It was that between-hours twilight time of evening; the noontide markets had packed up for the day and the nightlife of Mustapha was beginning to unfold around them. Overripe fruits and dead flowers littered the dust-covered ground, crushed underfoot. The musicians were just starting to come out, striking out a beat of drums, the entertainment of an evening. So, so different from Paris, with its operas and concert halls…

Then all the old pain surged through him. Blackness came over his vision as the memories clamoured to destroy him.

_A chilly autumn night, the frost crystalline upon the pavement as the carriage drew up to the concert hall. Stars glinting in the icy November sky, almost as bright as the diamonds around Christine's slender throat. Her muffled hands holding his tightly while a flush of anticipation coloured her cheeks. Through the open doors drifted the haunting melody of strings, the notes lingering in the clear, cold air. The scent of perfume and twilight._

He remembered Christine's rapt face as she listened to the melancholic strains of music.

"_It's wonderful," she said. "It makes me feel sad."_

_Raoul laughed. "Why on earth would you want to feel sad?"_

_But she only motioned him to be silent, her attention already absorbed once more by the music._

"Schubert," he murmured. "I remember now. I took her to see Schubert. The string quartet in D Minor." Raoul smiled grimly. "She always preferred the Minors."

He breathed deeply, fighting down the unwelcome emotions. The memories haunted him and he hated them. It was a past life to him now. Bitter mockeries, reminding him of an innocence that could never be regained. There was only this blank despair.

He opened his eyes, faced once again by the darkened, rust-coloured town. The heavy scents surrounded him, sweet and sickly, assaulting his senses. Air that was foul and poisonous. Yet part of him wanted to sink into that enveloping decadence, to succumb, to _forget - _

Even as the thought crossed his mind, a small hand had closed around his wrist, pulling him towards a shadowed shelter beneath one of the stalls. Raoul caught his breath. It was dusky, secret, smoky. A lamp was swinging somewhere above his head. Throbbing music reached his ears, muffled behind walls. Luring, enticing perfume clung to the shadows, most potent around the form of the figure who had caught hold of him. He caught a flash of dark eyes, dark hair -

His heart lurched.

"Christine?" he whispered.

A sweet, velvety laugh.

"What's that, love?"

He looked closer, squinting in the dim confines of the shelter. Not Christine. But a girl still, around the same age. Her hair, unbound, fell beneath the folds of her cloak like hidden promises. Gold glittered around her neck and wrists. Her eyes were like smudges of charcoal in her dark, coquettish little face. They ran admiringly over his body.

"I'm sorry," he murmured, starting to move away, "I thought -"

"Not so fast, handsome," she chided in caressing tones. Her fingers ran along the collar of his shirt, before dipping beneath, brushing against bare skin. Raoul's hands flew up instantly, catching her wrists, halting her mid-motion. Full, sensual lips dipped into a long-practised pout.

"You look tense, sweet," she crooned. "I'll help you relax." Her body pressed against his, backing him up against wood, fabric, _something - _

He pushed her away from him in disgust. _Nothing more than a common whore_. In Paris, these kinds of women were not nearly so brazen. Indeed, he had been shocked at some of his brother's mistresses that had been stylish and refined, almost _elegant. _They had always made him awkward; he did not know how to reconcile their seeming respectability with the knowledge of what they did for a living. Philippe had laughed and said he'd learn soon enough…

"Playing hard to get?" The girl was insistent. "We rarely get them as good-looking as you. And by the sounds of your voice, you're better born than these tattered clothes would suggest, so I doubt money's the issue…" Her hands were once more on his body, this time moving downwards. Heat flooded through him. For a moment there was nothing but blurring, sensual darkness and a pretty girl who wanted him. It would be so easy to drag her face to his, kiss her hard and briefly relieve some of this tension and longing -

_No - _

He pulled back at once. Something metallic fell to the ground behind him with a dull _clang. _A brass pot, left over from the market earlier.

"I'm not interested," he said firmly.

Her face hardened, an expression older than it should have been marring its prettiness. She said something in Arabic, _Manyak. _Raoul didn't know what it meant, but could tell by the tone it was something derogatory. "Come back when you've decided to become a real man," she said derisively.

She walked away in a sway of hips and swirl of silks, coquettish once more, seeking more willing customers. Raoul remained still, breathing hard with part anger. A _real man. _Oh, he had certainly become a real man over the last few months. Yes, thanks to Erik, he had done a lot of growing up. He truly was a _worldly_ individual. Clenching his jaw, he left the dim shelter of the canvas and stepped back out into the cloying warmth of the street. Extravagant colour and noise and madness greeted him; he felt he had plunged into the bowels of the earth to Hell itself.

"You disappeared," said Nadir coolly, when he had weaved his way past the musicians and the girls who danced for money. "We wondered where you had gone."

"Nowhere of importance," said Raoul, a little bitterly. He began to walk ahead quickly, not wanting to talk to Nadir, not wanting to talk to anyone. The encounter had left a sour taste in his mouth. He felt nothing but distaste. It was not the first time he had been approached in such a manner, but he was not yet willing to degrade himself so utterly. For him there was Christine, only Christine. But he could not deny it had ignited the first spark of sensation he had experienced in months.

Lust.

Almost involuntarily, he glanced behind at Meg, who was walking with her mother, the two conversing in low voices. Meg. No, he hadn't quite forgotten her. She was the closest thing to purity in this dark existence, the last shred of his sanity. _She _wasn't dark. She was bright, and warm and vivid.

Strangely enough, her brightness didn't hurt his eyes.

Part of him wanted to reach out to that brightness, touch it. The other part of him thought it might be safer in the dark.

She was different from Christine. Christine's innocence had been that of gentle naivety, of spiritual conviction and hope, and the heartfelt belief that there was good in everyone if only they looked hard enough. It wasn't innocence he saw in Meg, not exactly. Incorruptibility was perhaps the better word. Her unflinching ability to look harsh realities in the face and accept them without being dragged down into darkness. It was inevitable he was drawn to her, that she was the one he confided in, when he felt like confiding in anyone at all.

And why should she not be? She was brilliant, magnetic, passionate. He wasn't in love with her. But sometimes, in his bleaker moods, he could not help but wonder whether it would be worth going to her, purging his inner darkness and burying himself in -

But he always halted that thought before it could reach its conclusion. She was the only thing left standing between him and utter darkness, but it still wasn't enough. They were all too far removed from him now. The breach between them was too great to cross. He didn't even want to try any more.

If they knew just how hard the very act of living was, just getting through each moment. Their smiles were as blinding as the violent sun that seared his eyes his every waking moment. He stared at them blankly. How was it they could be so _real, _so vividly alive? How was it that this sun did not char and bleach them to bone? He resented them a little for that.

Why did they bother with it? Why were they accompanying him on this hopeless mission, continuing only because of a bleak sense of duty? Surely they didn't believe it had any chance of succeeding?

He envied them and pitied them as much he resented them. How much easier life would be if there were no feelings. No pain.

He had separated himself from them, just like he had separated himself from everything that had been his former life. Except her, of course.

Christine.

Overwhelming sadness passed through him. Sometimes, he had to focus hard to remember her face. At other times, it was the only thing he could see.

They had entered a smaller street, darker, narrow. A street of closed shutters and near-blackness, a heavy, smokier scent than the exotic tang of spices and amber in the Mustapha markets. And it was empty, something almost unheard of in this place, lost and hidden. The atmosphere was dense, forbidding. Raoul seemed to sense it too, Meg realised, as her mother's hand caught hold of hers. Something had changed, drawing him out of his state of emotionless apathy. There was a hard, defiant, reckless look about him that indicated he did not unduly care what became of him. His dark blue eyes glittered, and his body was tense as thought preparing for a fight.

"This is it."

The Persian stopped up beside him. "You're sure?"

Raoul nodded. Although, with his wind-tanned skin and dun-coloured shirt, he blended into the shadowy background of the alley, he was still the only thing her eyes could focus on.

He looked at Madame Giry and her daughter. "You two should stay here."

Meg's mouth fell open. "We're not just going to -"

"Do as he says, Meg," said her mother. Raoul gave her a brief, grateful nod.

"We shouldn't be long."

"Careful," said Nadir, his slow, grave voice undercut with a thread of anxiety. "We need to approach this with some caution."

"I'm through with being cautious," said Raoul. He looked, thought Meg, rather like a snake about to strike. Those changeable eyes that alternated between grey and blue were now jewel-like: hard and ruthless. His sun-bleached hair burned gold in contrast. The effect was rather dizzying. She was reminded of stories she'd heard of avenging angels. She watched the two men walk away; one slow and slightly stooped, the other upright with a languorous sort of grace belied by the set tension of his shoulders. Meg sighed and leaned back against a wall still warm from having been exposed to the midday sun. There was nothing more she could do than wait.

"Here."

Raoul had stopped outside a house with shuttered windows, its formerly whitewashed walls faded into taupe. Unhesitatingly, he pounded on the door until it opened a crack. Nadir caught an indistinct glimpse of a dark, heavy featured, very masculine face that could have been anywhere between thirty five and fifty. Men aged quickly in this country. The sunken-in eyes took in the sight of them suspiciously.

"Ahmed Azra, I presume?" said Raoul.

"We've no more bookings," came the curt dismissal.

"We're not here for a room."

The man immediately began trying to close the door, but Raoul had wedged his elbow between door and frame, forcing it open. He was - Nadir could scarcely believe it - _smiling._

"Told I was coming, were you?"

"I don't know what you mean," Azra said immediately, and without a trace of fear.

Raoul was no longer smiling. Through the growing shadows, Nadir could see the furrows in his brow. "I'll make it simple," he was saying quietly. "You rented this property to two tenants approximately seven weeks ago. Perhaps you were told they were a married couple. Perhaps you didn't care enough to ask. I can imagine though, that there was some substantial payment for your silence. Rumours of a murder not too many streets away, a few bloodstains on your floor, you were prepared to let slide. Such easy money doesn't often make it's way to you, I'll wager. A final payment before they left - I don't know how recently - and a warning not to go prattling to any inquirers. How close am I getting?"

"You've been misinformed. This property has been empty for weeks -"

"Nadir," said Raoul, calmly. "Go to the end of the alley and keep watch. I don't want anyone to interrupt us."

Nadir hesitated.

"Now," said Raoul, warningly.

With a look of deep misgiving, the Persian obeyed.

Raoul turned back to the man glaring at him from the other side of the door. "You see, I rather think you're lying to me. And if there's one thing I loathe, it's being lied to. Now, I'm not fully familiar with customs here, but surely it's politeness to invite a guest inside?"

"You're not a guest," Ahmed retorted sharply. "You're trespassing on my property."

"Yes," said Raoul, "And I'm also growing impatient." Without waiting for further invitation, he wrenched the door open fully and stepped inside. The abrupt intrusion caused Ahmed to stagger back a couple of steps. The door slammed shut behind them, cutting off much of the copper-coloured light filtering in from outside. The hall was empty save for a couple of unused packing crates that had begun to gather dust. The air was still and dry.

The two men faced each other warily, neither fully prepared to be the first to resort to violence. Raoul's eyes did not miss the gleam of metal emanating from Ahmed's belt, and began to talk with a casualness that belied the note of danger beneath the surface.

"You're here alone, Azra? That's very foolish of you. Or maybe you just don't have many people who are willing to call you a friend -"

The rest of his utterance was broken off by a horrible sound; a sort of guttural gasping, _wheezing_ - it was only then he realised the older man was laughing at him. Raoul remained still and silent, refusing to be riled, to let anger lead him into doing anything rash.

"You're just a boy," said Ahmed contemptuously. "What can you do?"

Raoul regarded him consideringly. "You're right. I was, once." His voice lowered to barely more than a whisper, but every word was enunciated like the cold edge of a knife's blade. "But then a man like you - a lying, murderous villain - tore my life apart. My boyhood died the day he entered my existence and took everything from me that mattered. Peace, security, justice, the last of my family… the only woman I ever loved. I have nothing left to lose. So if you think for one moment that I will hesitate in taking you out for standing between myself and him… then you are a greater fool than you think _me."_

The dim, heavy silence of the room was broken by the faint _click _of a pistol. Azra's eyes widened in harsh understanding. Raoul's expression didn't waver for a moment.

"Good. Now I seem to have your attention."

Ahmed shook his head. His heavily ringed dark hand slid halfway to his belt before appearing to think better of it. "There's nothing I can tell you. They've gone."

"When did they leave?" asked Raoul.

"Yesterday."

Aside from an involuntary sharp exhalation of breath, the hand on the pistol tightening imperceptibly, Raoul didn't move. "Yesterday?" he repeated. One day. He had missed her by _one_ day_…_

Ahmed was watching him narrowly, his eyes like those of a hunted cat. "It's nothing to do with me now."

"Ah, but it is. You can tell me where they were planning on going."

"No. I couldn't."

"I'm trying to be reasonable, Azra," Raoul said softly. "I'm not asking for a specific lodging. Just whether they are still in Alger, where they might have gone… a rough location."

"I'm sorry," said Ahmed flatly. "But you're out of your depth. I'm more afraid of him than I am of you."

"I understand," said Raoul coolly.

And raising his pistol, shot him in the chest.

"How very foolish of you."

* * *

His life seemed to be one of darkened rooms and shuttered windows. At first, Raoul had thought it was to keep the world out. Now he realised it was to keep him _in._

He wanted to sit in this darkness forever, to hide away from what he had done. He wanted that oblivion. Oh, how he wanted it. He was so tired… he longed only to sleep, but he couldn't. He couldn't ever sleep again.

Everything was different now. Before, he had persuaded himself that he could change, that there was time yet to make amends, to become again the man he had once been. Now - in a single moment - that man was gone forever. One moment was all it had taken. Now the world was forever changed.

Had there been blood? Had the man cried out? Had he felt _pain? _Raoul couldn't even remember his face.

He hadn't even looked. Had just let Nadir pull him away, he could remember nothing more… except finding himself back at their lodgings, in this room, in this darkness. There was only this interminable present. His very own dark night of the soul.

_Yet no saviour is coming for me._

He felt sick. Dirty. Violated.

_Unclean._

He glanced down at his hands. They were not the hands of Raoul de Chagny. These hands were coarse and rough, the skin hardened and calloused, not fair but burned bronze. The hands of a stranger. Of a murderer.

_No. My hands. Mine. I did this._

_I killed a man._

_And it was easy. It shouldn't have been that easy… You didn't even need to do it, that man probably hates Erik as much as you do, he was merely posturing…_

Erik. It all came back to Erik in the end. He was still unmarried because of Erik. He was in Algeria because of Erik.

He was a murderer because of Erik.

No.

_You didn't have to kill him. There was a choice. No matter how limited your options were, there was still a choice._

It would be easy to blame Erik. He _wanted _to blame Erik. But -

_It's me. I'm what's wrong._

Raoul shuddered. His hands were pressing against his temples, wanting to purge away the memory of what he had done. He was hurting so much he wanted to die.

The fear of getting caught was nothing. It would be a relief, even. Perhaps he _should _get caught. He deserved to be put away. How did they punish criminals here? Did they even _care?_

_I truly am one of them now. Corrupt to the core._

Funny how when he had first come here, he had needed to try so hard to conceal his true identity.

_Now look at me. I've blended in so well, I've turned into my disguise._

This was who he was now. A man who bribed and used people. A man who ignored his companions. A man who killed those who stood in his way. How could he hope to escape the person he had become? When had the wrong thing had started to seem right?

He had always said he would do anything for Christine. Raoul smiled, ironically. Well, he had lived up to his word. Now he realised there was nothing holding him back from his goal. He had murdered a man and gotten away with it. He could do anything now to aid him in finding Christine. There was nothing stopping him -

Then he stopped, horrified at himself.

Sickness rose up inside him, but nothing in this world could purge the hatred and disgust he felt towards himself. At last he had truly come to loathe himself and his behaviour. He didn't know what was right or wrong any more.

Raoul de Chagny. He remembered that man. Raoul de Chagny had been a younger brother. Raoul de Chagny had been an ardent suitor.

Raoul de Chagny had been a good man.

* * *

"How long has he been in there?"

"Two and a half hours now. He's not spoken a word to anyone since… well, you know."

Meg swung her legs impatiently beneath the table. "Have you _tried _talking to him?"

Nadir met her impertinent tone with a look of such solemn gravity, she stopped fidgeting at once. "I was rather hoping you would," he said quietly.

"Me?" She wasn't sure whether to be flattered or nervous.

The Persian leaned forward, almost appealingly. His exotic robes faintly gave off that very foreign scent of Middle Eastern incense and musk. "He'll talk to you, I think. He likes you."

"Maybe," Meg said. "But he would leave me, along with everyone else, if he had to." She bit her lip. "Still, if you think it will help…"

"I do."

She pushed her chair back and stood up. Her back felt stiff from its prolonged position against the hard wood.

"Well, I'm not making any promises," she said. Her head was swimming slightly from the mugginess of the air that drifted in through the open window. Alger might be a town that did not sleep, but she certainly needed to. And preferably in a bed that wasn't hard and narrow with only thin sheets of crisp cotton.

Pushing aside the longing thoughts of her bed back in Paris, she made her way up the stairs, her light, dancer's feet barely making a sound on the floorboards that were normally prone to creaking. She could feel the music outside, mysterious and alive, vibrating through the walls. Sometimes, she heard it in her dreams.

Raoul's door was closed, and there was no light coming from beneath. Meg refused to let it act as a deterrent. She somehow doubted he was asleep in there. And if he didn't want to see her… well, that was too bad. He was going to have to.

Lifting her chin in a characteristic gesture of stubbornness, she turned the handle and walked in without knocking.

The first thing to greet her eyes was darkness, deeper than the shadowy half-light of the hall. She stood still as her vision began to allow objects to materialise: a chair, a bed, a window framed with a line of amber light from the streets outside. A pistol lay on the floor as though Raoul had flung it away from him. A lamp stood on the bedside table. She moved towards it.

"Don't." His voice, spoken from the shadows, made her jump.

"But -"

"I prefer it in the dark."

Meg shuddered. God, had he just been sitting there in the blackness, in complete silence? At the sight of him, something tugged at her heart. She was remembering the very first time she had seen him at the rehearsal of _Hannibal_: the handsome, warm-hearted nobleman whose movements conveyed grace and surety and strength with just a touch of arrogance. She had barely given him a thought. But now… he looked so _different. _Dangerous. It went beyond the tense set of his shoulders or the stubble on his chin or the burnished unruly hair that fell past his collar. No, it was in the hollowed cheeks, the haunted expression, the eyes that were far too old for his young face… there was a world of misery in those eyes. The kind of misery that could only come from losing everything that mattered. He would never be the same person again.

A chill ran through her. She felt suddenly hopelessly small and out of place. This was not usual for her. In Paris, she had been the most popular girl in the Ballet Corps, always in the middle of a crowd of giggling girls or the first to be admired by the noble patrons who followed her with their eyes. Bright, funny, fierce Meg Giry with her warm heart and sharp tongue had formerly been the centre of her small universe. Now she was no one, as woefully insignificant in this hard and violent land as the smallest grain of sand.

Raoul stretched out a long leg, staring down at his hands that were open on his lap. "You came alone then," he remarked dispassionately. "I suppose the others couldn't face the thought of being near me."

"No, they're –"

"They're avoiding me," he said, coolly. "There's no need to deny it."

"Can you blame them?" The question left her before she could prevent it. She cringed at her lack of tact.

"No," he said. There was a hard edge to his voice that made her wince. He was still refusing to look at her. "No. I've killed a man. Everything's changed."

"If you want me to go -" she began, a little uncertainly.

"I don't." His calm voice cut through her doubts. "God knows, you're the one person I _do_ want around."

"You're lucky," she said. "In a way." _Lucky? He's just killed a man, and you're calling him lucky?_ "They don't ask too many questions here. Azra's enemies far outweighed his friends. Apparently, he was known for money laundering." Raoul looked beyond caring at this point, as though the thought of his own welfare hadn't even crossed his mind.

She should be frightened, she knew that. She knew that something had irredeemably altered within him. Deep down, she knew he was dangerous.

_But when did danger ever stop you?_

Her reckless dash into the cellars of the Opera flared vividly in her memory.

_What a fool you are, Meg Giry._

She started as Raoul stood up, unexpectedly, walking slowly across the dim room and pausing before the mirror. She noticed how he had maintained his easy grace; there was no sign of stumbling, or hesitancy. At least, not in his stance. But there was a dreadfully blank expression on his face as he stared at the ghostly mirror image of himself, speaking more to himself than to her.

"It happened so fast," he said; with that same blank look on his face. "I didn't think." He stopped himself with a frown. "No, that's a lie. There must have been a moment when I knew - knew what I was going to do."

"Raoul -"

"Why didn't I stop?" he whispered. "Why did I let it go so far?"

_Because of Christine, _she thought sombrely. _Now she's got two men who are willing to commit murder for her. _The thought made her blood turn to ice. How many more people were going to be killed before this was over?

"I was sick," he said dully. "After it happened. I kept throwing up until there was nothing left, but I still feel sick." He stared at his reflection in the glass. "I always will."

"It would be worse if you didn't."

"Perhaps. But it doesn't change what I did – I'm still a murderer."

"Yes," she said quietly.

"Thank you," he said.

"For what?"

"For not trying to lessen what I've done."

He was staring down at his hands again. When he saw she had noticed, he quickly curled them into fists and looked away. Then he gave a hard little laugh. "I suppose it's truly over now."

"What do you mean?"

"What do you think I mean? Christine, of course. How can I face her again after this? How can I look at her?"

"If she loves you -" Meg began, but he cut her short with a sound like a laugh, but nothing could be called a laugh that contained such hollow despair. "I'm as bad as he is now. That sense of moral superiority… I don't have that any more. Why would she want me when I'm no better than him? How can I demand that she love one murderer but not another?"

"That's the difference between you. You would never demand her love. You'd let her go, if she asked you to."

"I don't know. I don't know how far I'm willing to go anymore."

"Raoul -"

"It's curious," he said flatly, not sounding curious at all. "I don't know what I'm capable of anymore. I'm becoming so obsessed with finding Christine, I'm wondering whether it's turning me into the very man I'm trying to protect her from."

"That isn't true." She pushed a strand of blonde hair out of her eyes.

He titled his head to one side, regarding her thoughtfully. His face was cold and hard and beautiful. Like the statues of angels that adorned the Opera chapel. "Why do you keep coming here, Meg?" His voice was soft. "Why are you prepared to forgive me everything?"

She met his gaze steadily. "You're my friend, Raoul."

He reached out and caught at her hand, his fingers causing a brief, rough fiction against her skin. His touch was like a fever. Her heart jumped.

"No," he said. "We're not just friends."

Meg swallowed, tilting her chin up as she looked at him. The topmost buttons of his shirt were undone; it fell slightly over one shoulder, exposing a slant of tanned, muscled skin. She was close enough to feel his sharp inhalation, the tense, barely-there control. There was a _rawness _to him now that had never been evident before, a kind of wild electricity that was hardly contained by his lean, strong frame. The rough danger of it thrilled her. It was something foreign, alien, unknown.

"What do you mean?" Her voice was soft in the hushed space between them.

He was staring down at their interlocked hands, comparing perhaps, as she was, the small softness of her own to the calloused hardness of his. "I don't know what I would do without you." His voice was low. "You're the only person I can talk to… the only thing keeping me sane."

They were standing very close together, his eyes looking into hers, and she realised this was probably the first time he was really seeing her since she had entered the room. His grey eyes burned, too heightened, too intense.

"Promise me you'll always be here. You see the good in me when I've forgotten how."

Her hand tightened on his. "You _are_ a good man, Raoul."

He gave a bitter laugh. "Good? What does that even mean? In the end, it's just a word."

She glared at him. "I know you don't believe that."

Grey eyes flared with sudden energy. "Has it occurred to you that it might be easier for me to believe it?" he returned, harshly. "That the alternative would mean considering myself in the worst possible light, making me the most wicked and despicable of men? Is that what you want from me, Meg?" His breath stirred her hair; she had no breath to protest. "_Is _it?"

Meg refused to be daunted by his words or the contemptuous look he threw her. If he was feeling anger, at least he was feeling _something_. Anything was better than that former terrifying blankness. She could deal with his anger.

"I want you," she said insistently, "To stop punishing yourself. You're too good for this."

His hand tensed beneath her own. A shadow fell across his face. "_I'm _too good? No, Meg. You don't know me at all. You think you do, but you have no idea."

She knew, in a sense, that he was right. It was his very remoteness that intrigued her, his ability to draw her in one moment and hold her at a distance the next. How very different it was for someone who had always got what she wanted so easily, to whom men approached so willingly...

His hand pulled away from her grasp, and he turned away slightly, remote and untouchable once more. She watched him warily.

"I have to find her," he said. "I have to. It's taken over me, in a final sort of way."

"And we want to help you."

"I know," he said, dully. "But I cannot do what you want. I can only do what I must." He spoke with a bleak determination. "I know myself for what I am. And it's… terrible."

Shaken by the chilling certainty in his tone, Meg could summon no words of resistance.

"It's what I'll have to be if I want to defeat him."

Feeling unlocked her frozen tongue. "Not if the price is your integrity! Do you think Christine would want that?"

A slight smile curved his mouth, but it seemed to derive more from bitter amusement than real comfort. "Meg. What would I do without you?"

She smiled, tried to keep her tone light. It was the hardest thing she had ever done. "Be left to some peace and quiet, I'd imagine."

"No." He didn't laugh, as he once would have. Instead, his fingers rested on her chin, tilting it up slightly. She inhaled his scent and closeness as he looked down intently into her face. There was an expression there she could not name: admiring, almost… _entranced_. The moment seemed to stretch between them. She stole an unsteady breath.

Then his hand dropped to his side. He looked away. "God, you're so innocent. I shouldn't be dragging you into this."

"I'm not so innocent," she responded, a little sharply. Now why had she said that? Guilt perhaps. Or maybe because she was gradually being swallowed up by the weight of everything unsaid that was hanging over her. _Why _couldn't she just -

_You know why. Stop being such a little fool. There are more important things happening._

He sounded wearied now. "Things used to be so clear. Right and wrong. Good and evil. But now nothing is certain. I _don't_ understand. How many evil deeds can a good person do before they become an evil person?"

"You are _not _evil." She spoke firmly. "Do you hear me, Raoul?"

"Then why do I feel like this?" he asked despairingly. "Why is everything so dark? And I don't just mean tonight. So many things… Philippe died…" Suddenly, overwhelming sadness crossed his face. Intense pity came over her. "I know I wasn't as good a brother as I could have been, but I loved him. And I don't think he even knew. I can't go through that again."

She shushed him, sympathetically, her fingers combing through the coppery shades of his hair. It curled slightly over his forehead. She could feel the warmth of his skin as the touch became a caress, soothing his temples. He sighed, deep in his throat.

"Christine… she's all I have left. If I lose her, then I don't have anything."

Meg pulled her hand away abruptly. The words, spoken so unconsciously, shouldn't have hurt her, but they did. Raoul did not seem to have noticed her withdrawal, but continued speaking softly, the suppressed pain evident in his voice.

"That night on the rooftop was the most perfect moment of my life. I knew we were in danger, but it… didn't matter, somehow. Everything was clear, and certain. I knew myself, and I was… happy. I had hopes, and dreams. Christine loved me. And whatever danger there was, we could face it, together. And now… and _now…_"

"I'm so sorry," she whispered, her impulsive anger at him fading.

He looked up at her, startled, as though he had forgotten she was there.

"You should go," he said heavily. "It's late. They'll be worrying about you."

"I think they're more worried about you," she said quietly.

He did not respond to that; there was only a subtle tightening of his jaw. "There's nothing more you can do. At least…" He was staring ahead, a hard light glinting in his eyes. "No," he muttered. "I could never…" He straightened his shoulders, looking more like his old self. The frightening intensity had left his gaze. "You should go," he repeated.

She hesitated. "If you need me -"

"I'll call."

A wry smile curved her mouth. "No, you won't. And I think maybe that's your problem."

Before he could reply to that, she had turned and walked out the room, closing the door behind her.

* * *

When Meg went downstairs into the small parlour, she saw her mother seated alone at the small table, a glass half filled in front of her. She glanced up as her daughter sank into the opposite chair wearily.

"You look pale." Antoinette narrowed her eyes. "You're not sickening, are you?"

"I'm fine," said Meg, a little impatiently. In fact, she wasn't fine at all. She was bewildered, afraid, pitying, tired, and inexplicably annoyed. She hated her tendency to lose her temper so impulsively, an unpraiseworthy trait inherited from her mother. She sometimes envied Christine's calm tranquillity and generous nature. Be as that may, she could feel the warning signs of brewing anger the way she always did; prickling at the tips of her fingers and the pit of her stomach, the warmth of it flushing her cheeks.

"Here," Madame Giry said, pushing a glass across the table.

Meg stared at her. She had never seen her mother drink.

"Don't look at me like that, Marguerite," she snapped. "I thought you might need it. I certainly do."

Cautiously, Meg raised the glass to her lips. Unlike many of the girls at the Opera dorms, she rarely tried spirits. Too often they were procured from generous noblemen hoping for the pretty chorus girls to lose some of their - admittedly lax - inhibitions. It all seemed like part of another life, now. She knocked the glass back and winced slightly as the contents burned the back of her throat like fire. She couldn't say she _liked _the taste, but there was something oddly satisfying about it. Maybe it was the bitterness.

"Take small sips," her mother cautioned.

Meg lowered the glass with a sigh. She swirled the drink around, staring into its amber contents. The powerful smell of it made her eyes water.

"He's in a bad way, Maman. Raoul. I don't know what to do."

"Nothing," said her mother calmly.

She looked up at that. "Nothing?"

Antoinette's gaze was resolute. "I've been meaning to speak to you about this for a while. I don't like you spending so much time with him."

_Clink. _Meg's glass was back on the table. "What? _Why?_"

"I do not think it a good thing. For him or for you."

"Why not?" she demanded indignantly.

"He's killed a man, Marguerite! Or have you forgotten?"

"He was driven to it -"

"You will not defend that that man." Her voice was stern and unyielding. "I know his circumstances are… difficult. But it does not give him justification to act without regard to any consequences. We could have all suffered from his actions tonight. Would you still be so willing to defend him then?"

"I'm not _defending _him. I'm just saying I understand why he did it. Besides, I know you always hated him -"

Her mother's hands were gripping the edges of the table, white-knuckled. "I never hated him. I just don't know that I trust him."

"Well, I do," Meg said staunchly. She had gotten to her feet without realising it. "Because, God knows, somebody should!"

"Meg -"

"No," she said, angrily. Her insides were burning; either from whiskey or anger, she could not tell. "No, I am not some naïve little girl any more. You can't expect me to stop seeing him just because you disapprove. Christine _chose _Raoul, whether you like it or not, and I am _not_ going to turn my back on him the minute things get difficult. Not for you. Not for anyone."

With a shaking hand, she downed the remaining contents of her glass and left the room, her mother staring after her.

Suddenly, she wanted to cry.

* * *

The sparsely furnished room was very dark, the shutters allowing barely a gleam of moonlight to penetrate the place of self-imposed seclusion. But Raoul no longer in that room, or in that country, or even in that time. Leaning back in his chair, eyes closed, he was back in Paris, on his estate on a warm June afternoon:

_He was seated at his desk leaning over his accounts, but only giving them half his attention. The rest of him was idly appreciating the view his upstairs window commanded over the grounds that were a riot of floral colours. The combined scents of temperate summer air, wildflowers and the polished wood resin of his desk were soothing balm to a head full of facts and figures. He closed his eyes a moment, inhaling deeply. Who could work on such a beautiful day?_

_Still holding his pen, he began to reread the sheet of figures again when a warm pair of arms were suddenly around his neck and a curtain of tumbling curls brushed his shoulders._

"_Christine," he murmured. "You're early."_

_He felt her smile against his cheek. "Your manservant let me in." One slender hand drifted downwards to the paper on his desk and she leaned closer over his shoulder to read it, and as she did so, he caught the rich scent of her hair and sighed deep in his throat. Christine half turned to face him; she was close enough for him to see the faint flush of colour tingeing her pale skin. _

"_I'm distracting you," she said in concern, beginning to pull away._

"_Yes," said Raoul. "You are." He reached up and caught her arm, bringing her closer to him. "But don't stop."_

_She was knelt beside the chair so they were almost at eye level; he only had to look down slightly into her face. Her lips were parted in that shy smile so well loved, so long missed. "I'm a bad influence on you," she whispered, not entirely in jest._

_His hands cupped the sides of her face gently, fingers lightly caressing the smooth skin and his heart beat fast when he saw her eyes half close, dark lashes brushing her cheeks. _

"_You're my besetting sin," he agreed in a soft voice._

_She leaned closer towards him and he saw her travelling cloak had come loose, exposing one white shoulder barely covered by the ruffled frills of her light summer dress. Her brown eyes opened wide, part sincerity, part youthful playfulness. She was so near that her sweet voice stirred the tiny hairs along his jaw line. "Then what shall I do?"_

_Raoul smiled, meeting her lips with his. _

"_Punish me."_

Raoul opened his eyes.

"Oh God, that was paradise," he whispered. He sighed, wanting to lose himself again, but a quiet knocking at the door interrupted his reverie. He glowered resentfully in the direction and cause of the disturbance. He hoped whoever it was would go away if he ignored it. They didn't. Instead the door swung open, and Raoul glanced up to see only darkness, before a heavy pair of shoulders materialised through the gloom.

"Oh," he said. "It's you. I hoped -" He sighed and didn't finish the utterance. "What time is it?"

"A little after three."

"Is that all?" He exhaled wearily. "It feels like it's been days."

Nadir said nothing. Raoul rubbed a hand across his forehead, trying to ease out the tense lines. He was tired and _aching._

"I suppose you've come to lecture me," he said at last, when the Persian remained motionless.

"Do you want me to?" Nadir said, his voice very quiet.

"I doubt it would make any difference."

Nadir was seriously alarmed by the resigned despair in the man's voice. Inadvertently, his eyes went to the whisky decanter, but he saw it was untouched. A small thing, but one worth noting. Raoul hadn't chosen to drink himself into oblivion. He was refusing to take the easy way out. He was making himself feel this, all of it. He _wanted _to punish himself.

The Persian thought there was only one time he had known such comparative misery. The night his son had died. Back then, he had by no means been averse to drinking and swallowing his grief in a haze of opium. Unlike Raoul, he had pulled no trigger, plunged no knife into his child's heart. No, he had merely stood by and _allowed _it to happen, given his permission. The fact that Reza's life had closed in a beautiful, illusory dream rather than in crippling agony made it no less painful. Even now, he wondered whether he had done the right thing. The grief would never leave him, but he could cope with the grief. It was the doubt that haunted him. Nadir shook himself. It would do no good thinking of such things now.

"You tried to warn me," Raoul continued slowly. "That night I spoke to Jacques and Verges, weeks ago. If I'd listened to you, then… you tried so hard to save my soul. I suppose it's too late now."

The Persian said nothing. What could he say? There was something both sad and horrible about watching this young, good, kind-hearted man become reduced to a hollow core, a formerly heroic man who no longer believed in heroism, who had retreated into himself, and sickened by what he saw, had become bitter and despairing. Again, Nadir was struck by the familiarity of it, but refused to make the connect in his head. Besides, although Erik was a man consumed with darkness, he had never become an empty shell; if anything, he felt _too _intensely.

"You know that you could stop this at any time. No one would think any less of you."

"_I _would think less of me. And I can't stop. I've already gone too far. I –" Raoul looked up, and his voice was all the worse for it's utter lack of emotion. "Nadir, I killed a man today. If I give up the search now, that would have been for nothing. Just a needless waste."

"All murder is a needless waste."

"Be as that may… what happened today… I can never let that happen again. _Never."_

"So what will you do?"

"I'll not let my emotions get the better of me," Raoul said dully, while knowing full well it had not been passion with which he had killed, but the terrible coldness of clarity.

"And what happens when it's the next person standing between you and Christine?"

"I can't," he said. "I won't."

"That will not do!" Nadir insisted with sudden fierceness. "There will come a situation you think important enough, one man expendable enough. And then you too will be a man who weighs up life and death to his own ends! Do you think Erik began by killing anyone he chose? Of course he didn't. He started by killing his enemies, those who hounded and pursued him and kept him from achieving his ends!"

Raoul made no reaction during this tirade, only stared down at his hands, clenching and unclenching them slowly. "You're a good man, Nadir," he said thoughtfully. "I was a good man, once. But there is nothing else for me. Nothing to live for. Except seeing her. That is the one thing I want. And I can never have it. In the end, that's all there is."

_And ever shall be._

Raoul closed his eyes at the bleak inevitability. It truly was over.

Nothing mattered now.

* * *

**Reviews: **Yes, please.

**Raoul bashing: **Unless it's _constructive, _leave it at the door. I love Raoul, so there.


	24. Old Memories and New Beginnings

**The Mask and Mirror**

_What is this life that pulls me far away  
What is that home where we cannot reside  
What is that quest that pulls me onward  
My heart is full when you are by my side_

(Loreena McKennitt, Caravanserai)

_We shared emotions  
Found new horizons,  
But now doubt pervades me  
I say another prayer in the night._

(Amici Forever, Prayer in the Night)

Chapter 24

The scene before him shimmered like a mirage. Erik gazed out through the narrow window. The shutters were half-closed, but it did not prevent the glare of white-hot sun illuminating the carriage interior, nor the heat that broke over his skin in glassy waves. The visible strip of blue sky was as vivid as stained glass. Sand was everywhere. A heavy, ancient aroma of dust hung on the air. For someone who had been everywhere, seen everything, this air was neither stifling nor oppressive, but rather seemed to fill him with new life and vigour.

The rapidly swaying motion of the carriage caused just the slightest current of air to ease the blistering mid-afternoon heat. Erik was leaning back against the slick leather of the seat in a merciful slant of shade provided by the shadow of the shutters, his jacket long since discarded. His shirt sleeves were rolled back, exposing the tanned skin of his arms, one leaning heavily against the window. He could feel the sun searing along the surface of his skin, but it was too hot even to move. The hair was sticking to the back of his neck in a damp, unruly mass, but did not dare shake his head in fear that the abrupt action would disturb Christine.

She had fallen asleep against him, her head resting on his shoulder. He sighed deep in his throat, savouring briefly the sensation of her soft curls clustered against his neck, the gentle sounds of her breathing, barely audible above the clatter of wheels. He realised that he enjoyed watching her sleep. It was the only time he could look at her with leisure, have her completely open and unguarded. The night he had first brought her beneath the Opera House he had merely sat for hours, gazing upon her with adoration and desire. The fact that she was comfortable enough in his presence to fall asleep on him without fear was something he could never have imagined when he had first returned from Europe, when things were at their very worst between them. And now…

She murmured something unintelligible and shifted against him. Erik could feel the slim contours of her figure moulded against him beneath the light fabric of her dress, sending burning currents through his body. The sensation was maddening. His fingers longed to caress the smooth line of her exposed collarbone, or to travel further down, beneath the flimsy material of the tauntingly chaste gown she wore. He silently marvelled at the whiteness of her skin, still untanned even after all this time. His own skin was positively swarthy in contrast. He wondered how it would look with them both completely unveiled to each other's gazes, her pale, feminine softness beneath his own body -

His fists clenched at his sides.

Had they been an ordinary couple, he would have suggested they let the shutters down fully and make a more pleasurable use of their time. As it was, he could do nothing but sit in silence, and reflect.

_I will never stop loving her, _he thought, and it was not with inflamed passion, but resigned certainty that he realised this. _Whether it be in the centre of Parisian decadence or the windswept Algerian desert, that is one thing that I cannot alter. I believe if this world were consumed in flames and reforged anew, this feeling would endure. It is beyond me to restrain now. It is beyond us both. _Can _such a love be unrequited? Is it really possible that she feels nothing beyond pity - pity and _duty?

Again, he looked out the window. He seemed to see through things, beyond them. Time lost its significance here.

_And yet… she knows what I am. And she hasn't run. She is still here. That must mean something._

Yes, she had showed incredible belief in him, in his _soul, _presuming he still had one. Yet still he could not help but sometimes wish that her desires were of a more… secular kind. He remembered the performance of _Don Juan _with torturing vividness; how she had submitted willingly to being in his arms, had allowed him to caress her -

He clenched his jaw, gazing at the flat, shimmering expanse of sand. The scenery was strangely stirring to him. Heathen sights and scents and sounds. Such an assault on the senses could not but stir the blood. What better way to awaken her slumbering passions than to bring her to such an earthy, primal landscape?

"Erik…?" Christine murmured sleepily into his neck. His body tensed at the sound of her languid voice, her breath warm against the hollow of his throat. Heat flooded his lower body when he realised her hip was pressing against him. God, how sweet it would be to have her awaken in this manner after a shared night of passion, both of them exhausted and blissfully sated…

He dragged his thoughts away from such taunting possibilities and looked down at her, not wanting to betray too much emotion in his voice. "You fell asleep."

She squinted tiredly in the harsh light. "How long?"

He shrugged, and she felt the movement of his heavy shoulders. "About half an hour."

She realised then that she was leaning on him rather heavily, and sat upright at once, flushing. "I'm sorry."

Christine watched the fluttering of his shirt ruffles as he inhaled. His black hair was slightly dishevelled. She could feel the heat coming off his skin, and could imagine the rapid beat of his pulse beneath the surface. In an attempt to distract herself, she looked out through the narrow gap between the shutters. The view spread out before her with the harsh, hyper-real quality of an abstract painting. No noise or clamour of market life greeted her eyes here. Only silence and emptiness. It was barbaric. Magnificent. The sight of it recalled the memory of the dreams she was still having; dreams in which sand glittered gold under the noontide sun and blood ran in rivers across the desert wastes. And a voice crying out in pain and desolation for something lost that could never be regained.

_Whatever it is, _she thought sombrely, _it's coming closer._

A rough sand breeze whipped at her hair. Christine dragged her fingers through her tangled curls, wondering what madness had induced her to leave her hair down in this searing heat. But then, wasn't _everything _about her current life madness? What bizarre series of circumstances had led her to this point?

What was she _doing _here?

Resting her chin on her hand, she mulled over her situation.

_I am nineteen years old, in a strange country with a man who has extorted and lied and murdered without compunction. I have left behind a fiancée who loves me, and my reputation is most likely ruined. _

_And yet… I cannot say I am unhappy._

Christine had always told herself she wanted peace and tranquillity; a loving husband and a comfortable home was all she had asked for. She hadn't asked for danger or intrigue or madness or passion. Those things had been forced upon her, tearing her away from the happy ending she had been so close to attaining. And she was no longer the same Christine she had been six months ago. Already, she wondered whether those former luxuries would be enough to satisfy her soul.

She thought of neat lawns and red-bricked houses; she thought of dinner parties and crystal chandeliers; she thought of champagne flutes and piano keys; she thought of gilt and glass and silken snares, slowly tightening with a suffocating pressure.

_There has to be more, _she thought. _More than that constricted life can offer me. _

Here, the world was young. Or very, very old. She could almost believe anything was possible. But she was being ridiculous! It was absurd, this uprooting she had willingly undergone, she knew that as certainly as she knew her own name, something as definite and solid as the carriage wheels passing over ancient lands of dust, the jolting sensation through her limbs, the dust at the back of her throat and, _God_, the ripple of heat through her at the awareness of Erik's body close by hers, and that was more real than anything -

No, she certainly did not feel the caged, restless confinement she had experienced in Paris, even though in Paris, anything she wanted could be had for the asking. It seemed the more one gained, the less freedom they had.

Was this freedom? She could almost believe it was. Freedom from mansions and manners, from past sorrows and terrors, all of it slipping away like sand falling through her fingers. Yet perhaps it was not. If she had learned anything over these last few months, it was that you could never hide from the past; that it had a way of catching up with you the more you sought to evade or run from it. The proof of that was sitting beside her, darkness and desire dressed in a white shirt that fell pearlescent against swarthy skin. A black mask shrouding everything, yet hiding nothing. She had seen the look in his eyes, of wild desperation. The silent reproach was almost too much to bear. But knowing the time must come when she would never see it again was scarcely a consolation. The idea of not seeing him every day, not speaking to him… it was unbearable. The thought of it made her heart constrict.

_My God, how can I think of leaving him? It would destroy him. I cannot think of it. I will not. Not until I must._

"Here."

Christine jumped at the deep intensity of Erik's voice as he spoke. She looked at him in surprise. The dark hair clung to the sides of his face in damp strands, he was leaning forward intently. She followed the direction of his gaze.

The flat landscape was falling away behind them. They were riding up a long white road that reflected the sun's fierce glitter. It twisted among some distant hills, scorched, with scrubbed yellowish grass and no trees in sight. The carriage rattled beneath her, sending a jolt through her bones. And she saw the house a last: a pretty white building set atop a hill, the long road leading steeply upward to its gate.

"Is this…?"

He gave a curt nod. Christine drew in a quick breath through her dry throat, sudden excitement coursing through her veins.

"Erik…" Her voice was hushed. "How did you afford this?"

"My dear, I was earning twenty thousand francs a month. I should be able to spend it on _something_." He gave a deep chuckle, for once without bitterness. Christine however, frowned at his blasé attitude. She hadn't forgotten his tortured reproach for those nine months he had spent in Europe.

"You told me you were living in poverty last year; you had to work for a living."

"Do you really want to know how I came by the money?"

"Perhaps not." She looked away, feeling guilty for the sudden desire to laugh.

"Rest assured that I caused no fatalities in acquiring it." The deep, masculine voice carried an edge of amusement.

"I never said –"

"You were thinking it."

"No – I – alright, for a moment, maybe."

He smiled slightly beneath the mask, and Christine felt the tension in her shoulders relax slightly even though a thread of doubt crept through her mind. Was it right that they should bantering over this? And when had Erik ever found a sense of humour in _anything?_

And when would she ever stopped being confused by him?

Perhaps it would be better if she stopped asking questions.

She sighed and dragged her eyes away from his inscrutable profile, looking instead at the place that was to be her home for the foreseeable future. The wall around the house was high and white, long cracks running through it from the heat. However, it provided much needed shelter in the yard. The small lawns were trimmed and well kept, yet she noticed they had a harsh, scrubbed quality that all the grass here seemed to possess. Dry vines trailed along the walls, pods scattered on the ground. Christine glanced around and saw a few scant trees lined along the rough-worn stone.

_This is real, _she thought wonderingly, _far more real than the bright, hollow world in Paris._

She gave a start as Erik stood up in swift, fluid movement, and leapt from the carriage. Her eyes followed the movement of his retreating back as he began to converse with the driver. Closing her eyes until her vision was reduced to a strip of white heat, Christine listened to the distant rise and fall of Erik's voice as he spoke, the sound of it oddly soothing. She sighed and leaned back against the slick leather seat. Sweat beaded her forehead and ran down the back of her neck in slow rivulets. Coarse grains of sand chafed her tender skin. It would be a relief to get inside.

"Here," she heard Erik saying from far away. "I'll pay you twice as much for your discretion." Her eyes still closed, Christine smiled slightly. Lulled by the soft cadences of his voice, she felt herself relaxing in the warmth that basked her skin. Golden light danced behind her closed lids as sense of lethargy coursed through her body, sweet and cloying, like honey in her veins. Her pulse beat with a slow, languid rhythm. Once. Twice.

"Christine."

Those liquid syllables cut through her semi-somnolent state. She started, dark eyes flying open. Had she drifted off again? The carriage door was open, Erik standing beside it, waiting for her. His mouth was twisted in an amused line as he regarded her. A large, brown-skin hand rested lazily against the window frame. He appeared completely impervious to the heat; it was almost possible to believe his skin really was as cold and dead as she had once convinced herself, despite all experience to the contrary. Feeling the material of her dress sticking against her back, the white fabric turned translucent, she stood up, glad at the prospect of escape from this infernal heat.

Erik held out a hand to help her down. She took it. As he pulled her from the carriage, her foot caught on the step and she stumbled, half-falling into him. On instinct, his arms went out to steady her, catching her narrow waist with his hands.

Heat, skin, closeness. Rough cotton abrading her skin, a heartbeat pounding fiercely beneath the light fabric. Christine caught the scents of sweat and spice and road dust from lands unknown, the vivid energy of it exuding from the hard male body pressed against her own. Once again, his physical strength struck her with thrilling force. Something seemed to leap into life inside her chest; a fierce rush of sensation flaring and primal. She was burning, burning everywhere… Her heart beat with a fierce, savage delight.

The moment passed. She realised that her waist was still encircled by the warm weight of Erik's forearm. She stepped away on unsteady legs, still slightly bewildered at the rush of sensation. She walked forward a few paces, her feet leaving disordered prints on the dusty road. Particles of faded gold dusted her light shoes, vividly reminding her of the performance of _Hannibal, _in which she had been dressed as an Egyptian slave.

_Really, _she thought to herself, _I thought it quite scandalous at the time, but in this heat, it's perfectly understandable._

The wind tugged at her dark hair, the curls whipping against her skin like the coils of a snake. Her slender shoulders were stiff against the whipping breeze of sand particles, the crisp white folds of her skirts tangling around her legs. Erik swallowed down a gasp at the sight. What cruel irony was it that his angelic saviour should come in the body of a seductive temptress, one, moreover, who seemed to have no idea of her charms? He would have happily shown her exactly what it was that she did to him, were it not for fear of undoing the slight progress they had made.

Christine realised Erik was waiting for her; his immobile frame large and daunting, dark against the afternoon sun. For a man who normally dressed so impeccably, she noticed that his shirt was damp, the collar open against his throat, and dust coated his black trousers. It had a very humanising effect, transforming him from soulful angel and vengeful phantom into a man. A very tall, very powerful man, but a man nevertheless.

Smiling slightly, she followed him into the house. As she stepped over the threshold, she was momentarily blinded by the abrupt transition from light to dark. Christine waited some moments for her eyes to adjust, merely registering the blissfully cool air that caressed her bare arms and neck. The sensation was exquisite after hours of riding in the parched heat. As her vision cleared, she realised they were standing in a spacious hall with wooden flooring and panelled walls. She inhaled deeply, noting with pleasure the scent of amber and wood resin and snuffed candles. This was nothing like the cramped boarding house in Alger, with its constant noise and the smell of markets and tightly pressed bodies. This was… a place of beauty.

She realised Erik must have been watching her reaction carefully, as she could almost hear the barely-restrained smile in his voice when he spoke. "Come," he said, "I'll show you around."

Obediently, she followed him through the hall. Each room he showed her seemed to unveil new wonders. He was like a Pharaoh showing off his exquisite palace to a mere concubine. His love of beautiful things was as evident as ever, but his Parisian abode beneath the Opera had always maintained a certain Gothic ornateness. The interior of this house was something else entirely. Gold-hued and exotic to her uncultured eyes, with furniture that seemed to come from centuries ago, the finest remnants of ancient civilizations spread before her wondering eyes. _How _had he come by such exquisite items? Had he hand-picked them from the markets, wishing to preserve their opulent beauty? She felt too intimidated even to run her hands over the ancient carvings like she wished to, although she doubted he would mind such an action.

As they passed through the wide living and dining spaces, Christine ran her fingers over the dust-creased folds of her gown, feeling woefully underdressed in the midst of such exoticism. Her plain white garment, with its simple eye-hooked bodice and unadorned skirts seemed plain and dull, although she had never minded it before. Over the past few months, her choice in clothing had been dictated by the blistering Algerian heat, calling for practicality over fashion or propriety. But now…

She breathed in the fragrant air, the heady scent of spices, and felt something rebellious stir within her heart. She was no longer in Paris, with its strict codes of formality, dictating what to say, how to act, when to smile. She was in a foreign country with a man who followed no calling but that of his own mortal desires. Who was to say she could not do as her own passions dictated?

A moment later, she was shocked at the impropriety of her thoughts. Only once had she completely discarded all sense of decorum and decency and thrown herself headlong in the furnace of her darkest desires. She had no intention of doing so again. Not for all the gold and trinkets in the world.

But still. One day she would have to ask him where he had acquired the furnishings for this house, and the individual story of each. He could speak so beautifully of history, his melodic, evocative voice able to rebuild ruins, shape dreams in tangible forms and relive memories in all their tragedy and beauty. She wanted to hear about ancient cultures, people who lived and loved and hated with equal passion, and how their heirlooms had come to be within these walls. How it was that they were now… _theirs._

And this Cave of Wonders was to be her new home. Oh, how different from the home she had expected to come to as a young bride! And her companion was to have been Raoul, not the fierce, ruthless Phantom who had haunted and pursued her. The thought of Raoul brought a dreamy smile to her lips, as she thought of him without pain for once, merely with warmth and affection. It was strange, not to have that torturous, wracking ache in her heart which reminiscing so often brought, but it was enough to think over pleasant childhood memories, of ease and familiarity and affection. Lightness and laughter rose within her chest. Dear Raoul!

She wondered if Erik had guessed something of her thoughts, as the expression of burning passion that had leapt into his eyes was unnerving. His gaze was far too intimate. Christine clenched her jaw, standing her ground. She was not going to be made to feel guilty for thinking about her own fiancée!

"You look preoccupied," he said, with deliberate calmness. "Something on your mind, my dear?"

Christine merely looked at him. He already knew the answer, and she was not willing to play games. "I think you can guess," she said.

Erik stepped around to face her, bringing her up short. "Oh yes, I can guess." He seemed to absorb the last remaining vestiges of light and heat in the corridor, the close darkness wrapping around her like a dream. He leaned down as though he would devour her whole, broad shoulders cutting off any hope of escape. "I don't care if you love him," he breathed fiercely into her ear. "You feel something _far _stronger towards me, and be assured, Christine, I _will _uncover it. What you feel for me is something else entirely, and whatever professions of _love _you choose to make cannot possibly rival it. Not for one moment."

She could not look away from his dark, heavy-lidded gaze. It held her hypnotised, like the glittering eyes of a cobra toying with its prey. Her mind was whirling. Love… feeling something stronger… uncovering… she could not register his words, not with him standing so close, his hot breath against her ear, stirring her hair… No part of his body was touching her, so why could she imagine the feel of muscled flesh as she had felt when he had caught her from the carriage? She remembered that he had lifted her as though she weighed nothing at all. Christine shivered involuntarily, but he was looking into her eyes, he wouldn't notice that…

"Please let me pass." She was relieved that her voice came out calm, even.

Erik stared at her darkly for a moment, then obliged with mocking graciousness. He kept pace with her as they walked through the quiet house between the shadows, light and dark playing with the veils of heat and dust that hovered in the air.

She looked sidelong at him. He moved with the lazy grace of a hunting-cat waiting to pounce. She could see the tense line of his jaw, the forbidding darkness in his eyes like a gathering storm. Grim silence radiated from his body into the still air.

Curiosity finally impelled her to speak. "What are you thinking?"

"I was thinking how different would things have been," he murmured, "If I had never met you."

She had wondered this too. Yearned for it, once. Now it was no longer so simple.

A life without Erik? Could she imagine such a thing? Did she even _want _to?

The idea was awful. Unthinkable, even. If she had never met Erik, she would have lived an unremarkable life in the Opera House, obscure and unknown to everyone, except for Raoul…Yet it was only Erik's coaching that had enabled her to step into centre stage on the night of _Hannibal. _If it were not for that, Raoul would never have seen her again… oh, it was all to confusing and complicated and painful to think over, and _why _could she not break free of this, of _him?_

_You know why._

She felt pain just thinking about it.

Erik laughed mirthlessly. "I suppose we'll never know. Whether in our own separate ways, we could have found some measure of contentment… peace."

Contentment? Peace? She hardly knew what those words meant anymore. They were buried in that same part of her mind as Raoul; things she knew existed, but seemed to belong to a different world. Even if she went back to Paris, how could she take up her old life again, as though none of this had happened? She had barely managed it the last time.

She looked at him, her mind floundering, seeking answers.

_He has possessed my mind and soul. He has taken my life and shattered it beyond repair, and even now I would have it no other way. _

Her heart shuddered.

_I will never be normal again._

They had come to a halt outside one of the doors. Christine turned to Erik, the expression in her eyes inquiring.

"What's this?"

"This is to be your room. If you want it, that is."

It was an innocent enough statement but for the way he said it, with such dark suggestion… as though she would prefer to sleep in a room with - with -

Flaming colour rushed into her cheeks that she could not fully attribute to the heat. Would he _never _let her forget that performance of _Don Juan? _He gazed down at her, stern, impassive. Christine found herself once again infuriated by his ability to hide behind that black mask when he could read her own emotions with such ease.

He gestured her to go in, and she was relieved to do so, certain that he was making fun of her, though she could not define how exactly. Swallowing hard, and not entirely sure what to expect, she turned the handle and walked in.

She could sense Erik behind her as he entered, feel him breathing against back of her neck. Her skin prickled in response. Why was it when he stood close to her all the air in the room seemed to disappear? His words sounded, low and sweet in the scented air, blurring past and present.

"What do you think?"

"_I didn't realise it would be so big," replied Christine, staring around the generously sized room in awe._

_Raoul laughed. "You'll soon get used to it. It's been redecorated. To be honest, I didn't think they would get it done on time, after all, the wedding's in two weeks."_

_Out of the corner of her eye, Christine saw the maidservant quietly leave, and realised she was alone with Raoul in what would soon be her bedroom. A slight shiver – by no means unpleasant – passed through her at the thought. She let her eyes wander over the tasteful furnishings – typical Raoul, not to have anything too lavish or gaudily decorated. She sometimes wondered if he felt rather guilty at having so much money that had come to him by birthright. Trim rosewood desk and a dressing table, cream coloured carpets and long curtains in a pale apple green. No lavish draperies, sensual decadence or rich colours of crimson passion in sight. Yes, she would be very happy here. Instinctively, her gaze fell on the four-poster bed._

_She jumped almost guiltily at Raoul's hand on her shoulder, and embarrassed colour flooded her cheeks. He didn't seem to notice._

"_So you really like it?"_

"_Like it? Raoul, it's perfect."_

_He smiled at that, a deep heartfelt, genuine smile. She felt it warming her from the inside out. His hand had not moved, and although she was wearing several layers, she imagined she could feel the heat of his fingers passing through the material and against bare skin._

"_I saw the collection of Grimm's Fairy Tales on your bookcase," she continued quickly. "I remember my father had a copy just like it; why don't we –"_

"_Some other time, perhaps," said Raoul softly, and she wasn't sure whether it was the bright winter sunlight reflecting in his eyes, or something else. It had suddenly become very difficult to breathe. Christine was sure it wasn't just her, either. She could almost sense his heightened awareness of how close they were standing together, and his hand, either deliberately or by instinct, traced a slow line from shoulder to collarbone._

_She tried to talk lightly, but her voice came out a little shaky. "You've been to so much trouble…"_

"_It was worth it," he murmured against her mouth, and she was kissing him – or he was kissing her, his hands sliding from her shoulders to lock around her waist. It was the same and different all at once, the comforting familiarity of Raoul, but they were in his bedroom, his bed only inches away, for goodness sake, and she shouldn't even be thinking such immodest thoughts, and what would Madame Giry say…_

_The shawl she had worn around her shoulders against the chill slid unnoticed to the floor, and she became aware that his lips were at her cheek, her jaw line, the side of her neck… She shivered although she wasn't cold; no she most definitely wasn't cold –_

_This was ridiculous. Why, it was the middle of the afternoon, and a maidservant could return at any moment and – a million other reasons flew around her head, reasons that were as meaningless as leaves caught in the wind._

_Locked together, they stumbled back until Christine felt a sudden, shooting pain up the backs of her calves and yelped. Raoul pulled away at once, eyes wide and concerned. "Are you alright?"_

"_Yes," she breathed, overcome with an inappropriate urge to start giggling. "We – I just walked into the bed –"_

_Raoul ran a hand through his hair in a half embarrassed gesture. "Oh," he said. And then "Oh," again. "I'm sorry. We got a little –"_

"_Carried away," she finished, ducking down to retrieve her shawl to hide her red face._

"Christine?"

She blinked, hard. She didn't need to see Erik's face to know the forbidding expression he would be wearing. "If you don't like the room –"

"No, it's fine," she said quickly.

His hand flew out, catching her wrist. If he felt her pulse leap beneath his fingers, he made no mention of it. "So I may assume that you like it, then?"

Christine glanced around, realising she hadn't taken in any of her surroundings. It could not have been more at variance to the room that Raoul had shown her. There was black and crimson of silk and brocade, lit by a soft golden glow of light that passed through the gap in the curtains. Polished dark floorboards – she had expected cool stone to counteract the Algerian heat – beneath her feet and a large boudoir dominating one wall. Lucrece herself could not have slept in such a luxurious chamber as this. She shuddered at the analogy. The shrouded half-darkness, the expectant ambience and lingering aroma of incense curled around her senses like a half-forgotten dream, sweet and drugging. In all, it bore an uncanny resemblance to her dressing room at the Opera. Was this some unconscious reminder that in bygone days he had once been everything to her? The old story being rewritten to shape the ending as he desired. She shivered slightly within the shadow of his body and heard the breath catch in his throat. The only thing missing, she reflected, was the roses bound with a black ribbon, a symbolic pledge of beauty and devotion and sharp pain.

Shadows danced along the mirror on the opposite wall. Christine stared at her reflection, the brooding figure hovering behind her, his hands still on her skin, his breath stirring her hair.

"Yes," she found herself saying softly, "I do like it. Very much."

It was only when he had turned and soundlessly left that she realised this was true.

* * *

The sun had passed its zenith when Erik made his way through the cool and shaded corridor, long shadows starting to stretch along the floor before him. Booted footsteps made barely a sound against the strips of wood, a lingering after-effect of so many years of self-trained caution and restraint. They came to a halt altogether when he saw Christine's door was ajar. Sudden curiosity filled him, and he remained motionless, one hand coming to rest on the doorframe as his dark eyes sought and found the object of his desire within.

She was kneeling piously, skirts billowing around her in that shade of virginal white she seemed to favour. His breath caught at the sight of her dark hair spilling over her shoulders in curling waves. Her head was bowed as she whispered words of penitence with a feverish intensity.

_O My God, I am heartily sorry for having offended Thee and I detest all my sins because of Thy just punishments, but most of all because they offend Thee, my God, who art all good and deserving of all my love - _

Erik's hand tightened against the doorframe - a small, involuntary reaction. He was astounded, for what did she need to repent of? In his eyes she was perfection itself: his very own angel, sweet and strong and martyred. Erik could not help but wonder whether she would have been so good had he not shown her the side of evil. He had made her what she was.

Did she pray for him at all? And if so, what did she see? A soulless monster, or a man, scarred and ruined, though not entirely without hope?

_I will be worthy of her, _he thought grimly. _I will._

Prayer had always been something that bewildered him. Beneath the lyrical beauty and sentiment, the words were ultimately hollow, turning to ash as they remained ever unanswered. Words meant nothing. Foolish utterances, cajoling lies, broken promises. The written word was just as fallible. Pages could be burned, writing gone without a trace. It seemed the only thing one could truly immortalise was music.

It had never really occurred to him before that Christine might want to go to Church - or rather, he had not really wanted to consider the matter too closely. It would mean having to bring up the awkward fact that _he _did not want to go. He would not have stopped her attending had she wished to, but the thought of the quiet reproach in her eyes when he would refuse to pass the threshold was too much to bear. Even the prospect of seeing the baroque architecture and antiquated magnificence was not enough of an inducement to enter the sanctuary of a God who had long since abandoned him. Besides, looking at her now, it appeared she had found an adequate shrine without any need of chanting priests or incense or vespers.

No icons. No candles. Just the light slanting through the windows onto polished wooden flooring, the kneeling young woman and the whispered litany. There was something almost ethereal in the heart-aching beauty of the scene. She did not deserve to be here. She deserved to be up _there, _in endless glory_ - but he would not let her._ She was the guiding light in the howling, bewildering darkness of his life. Without her, he was utterly lost.

_God, don't take her from me - I _need _her!_

He would fight all the host of Heaven to keep her at his side. Even if it appeared in the form of a golden-haired, blue-eyed saviour; a nobleman on a crusade of righteous justice, to reclaim her for that world of light and beauty. She aspired for that holy world, while he was tormented by unholy thoughts.

He recalled her enticing form encased in crimson, the sultry flash of her dark eyes, luring as a snake to its charmer. The fluid movement of her sensual body within the possessive hold of his arms, all curves and coquettishness. But looking at her now, who would have thought it? She seemed the very model of purity, so innocent, so… unattainable. But then, wasn't forbidden fruit always supposed to taste the sweetest?

No, he could not believe that. She was not something to be tainted and corrupted by his profane urges. He could never do that. Not to Christine. He loved her too much for that. She was the one truly kind, selfless person he had known. And if it meant only being able to gaze at her from afar to preserve that, then he would submit to it willingly.

But God, it _hurt!_

The whole reason for his existence was irrevocably separated from him, casting heartfelt prayers up to Heaven, while he writhed in the torments of Hell, cursed by the demonic voices that even now plagued him with reminders of past atrocities.

What a fool he had been, to think forgiveness was so easily granted, that redemption could be attained so simply! No, to be redeemed from such a wretched past as his, one had to struggle, to die, to be martyred. He longed for fire and crosses, for shattered glass and blood spilled chalices. Had he really thought that hours of languishing in guilt and misery were sufficient? What a fool he was, to have convinced himself of that!

_Christine doesn't think so. She believes in me._

_She believes in me._

For a brief moment, hope flared and ignited in his heart. Unconsciously, his hand went to his pocket where he kept the mirror she had given him. He had it by him always now, to remind himself of the man she saw, the man he might one day become. Erik was overcome by a searing wave of love and yearning, and beneath it, crushing despair.

He had given her a home that was a paradise and the first thing she did was shut herself away to pray for a better state. _This_ was what his careful devotion meant to her. It was as though he had put out his hand for a flower and grasped only withered leaves. The sight of her, kneeling and penitent, told him a thousand times what mere words could not.

_She loves God more than she does me._

And how could he blame her?

That brought him completely to his senses. He released his brutal, gripping hold on the doorframe. His hands hurt. His head hurt. His heart hurt.

_I - I cannot stay here…_

He would not stay. He would not be alone, invisible, silent any longer.

Blindly, Erik walked out of the room and down the corridor; blindly, he opened the door to the music room; blindly, he walked towards the instrument. His head was aching, throbbing, bowing under the weight of his very own crown of thorns.

He needed… he needed release. And his music, the music that he loved!

The absence of music had left a bitter emptiness in his soul. For a time he had thought he could do without it… just as in those months in Europe he had told himself he could do without Christine. Nothing so easy. The two were one and the same, his sole reason for living in this dead world. A place dedicated to music had been his first thought in coming here. It was his second self, the part of him that Christine inspired and loved in turn. How could he have done without it all this time?

He sat down at the piano stool, struck by a sudden pang as he thought of his beautiful organ left to gather dust beneath the Parisian Opera House. But still… he hadn't played in so long… His fingers ran over the keys with a tentative reverence as he inhaled the polished wood scent of the instrument, one that was an endlessly soothing balm to his scarred soul. One of his fingers pressed against a key. The one reverberating note seemed to pass through flesh and bone. He paused, his entire being stilled to the sensation. Oh, how he had needed this. How he had missed it. Only now did he realise how much. No power on this earth could have persuaded him to step away from the instrument now. He played a chord again, but this time his fingers fell against the keys with a convulsive tension. His chest was heaving with some unnamed emotion, heaving, rebellious sobs burning in his breast.

_Oh God! I wanted her to love me, but she can't, she can't, she can't. _How _many months have I been waiting and hoping - my soul singing if she so much as casts a smile my way or drops a single kind word in my direction - is _that _to be the only shreds of happiness that life will offer me? I don't want to live like this - I _don't_ - always seeing the pain, the sorrow, without the joy to counter it. I tell you - if I had not this mockery of a face, I would render her so enslaved to me that she would be dying of love for me, ready to abase herself at the mere _contemplation _of being in my presence, and then we would see how much _she _would appreciate being pitied - _

He laid a burning, tear-stained cheek against the cool keys, deep-breathed gasps shuddering through his frame -

_No - no - I wouldn't wish that on her. She has been nothing but good and kind when I have been a brutal monster, I could never wish such a wretched state to be hers. It is only I that am wicked, and cannot justify the faith she has in me when I do not deserve it -_

The music, the emotion, pierced him through and through. It seemed to burn him inside like a white flame. And as he played, he thought, and remembered, and cried inwardly. He was bleeding to death with love and passion. How would this end? One only loved once like that. The human heart was not strong enough to endure such violence and despairing passion again. His love had long ago turned to despair. It was safer and wiser to remain detached. And yet - and yet - he could no more cut himself off from her than he could renounce his own self…

He played to give vent to the wild moods wrestling in his soul, struggling for release. There was pain, there was melancholy, there was exquisite rapture as he lost himself in the stormy passions that passed through his shaking frame. He played as he loved, with the greatest, and strongest, and most heartrending surrender to emotion. His senses were awakened, alive, crying out under the moral crucifixion his heart and soul had undergone. The months, the days and hours flashed by in images. Endless sand and sun, the life's blood of a stranger staining a knife and his conscience, Christine's entreating face as she knelt at his feet and professed her undying belief in him… The clasped hands, the unwavering certainty in her voice, the soul's passion betraying itself in her eyes… He would not forget that in his lifetime, never, never -

* * *

Christine did not know how many hours he had been playing.

She lay on the bed, the earth spinning beneath her and the music passing through her as the sun wheeled overhead. Years and years blurring into one, trickling like sand through an hourglass. Paris became Algeria, Algeria became Jerusalem, the scene of the greatest agony and the most sublime hope. Images of religious iconography blurred with her dreams of blood and searing loss. The passion and the pain.

The curtains were thrown wide, the high afternoon sun blazing in through the windows of her bedroom. It was so bright, it hurt her eyes. Memories of her engagement shimmered before her. In all that time, something, somewhere had been lost to her. Only now did she realise the cause for this restlessness, this aching longing.

The loss of music.

Listening to Erik's music had been such a heartrending and elevating experience that everything in comparison seemed… hollow, somehow. Devoid of meaning. She remembered how she used to return from his lessons unable to concentrate or settle to anything, thinking only of when she could once again hear the agony and hope and ecstasy that encompassed the human experience. She wanted to listen until all heartbreak and sorrow was washed away.

Oh, how he played! It was consuming, heartrending, unbearable. And vitally necessary.

She could not imagine a world without Erik or without music. To her, they were one and the same, bound inextricably with her soul. To take either away would be to leave her empty and desolate. Shattered and broken.

Christine sat upright, realisation washing over her. His music had given her something she was missing. She had found something she hadn't realised she had needed. She had, of her own volition, deprived herself of those glimpses into divine ecstasy, those brief flashes of transcendence that left her faint with yearning. She had cast that world away.

_No. I never renounced it, never. I could_ _not._

_I _will _not._

She had to go to him.

Unthinking, Christine passed through the hall, conscious only of an inexplicable need to find Erik. To find him, and… she longed to comfort him and exorcise his pain. Her face burned with heat though the air was cool. She knew the sun would be setting soon, plunging the landscape around them into a darkness beyond anything she had ever encountered in Paris. Yet who needed light when the darkness could be so beautiful? Erik had shown her that. Her heart buckled as memories overwhelmed her. Nights in her dressing room, mirrors and darkness and prayers to her father, evocative melodies entwining her…

_In those hours, I think I glimpsed Heaven._

She stood at the doorway, listening to him playing within. Quietly, she pushed the door open, stepping inside softly so as not to disturb him.

He was seated with his back to her, wholly absorbed in the instrument before him. Christine could only marvel at the searing intensity with which he played. Such music. No one else on this earth could play like that, or crystallise such thought into song. The piece was graceful and mysterious, with a convulsive tide of sorrow that slowly bore into her heart, captivating her with its underlying melancholy. It touched her with immense, almost infinite emotional power, graced with intensity and brilliance. Intense loneliness smote her being. The tears fell and splashed on her hands almost before she was aware of it.

She closed her eyes.

_Such beauty…_

She felt her heart swelling with intense emotion. This was the proof, right before her.

_This is how I know his soul is something beautiful, something elevated and worthy of salvation. For how else could his music be full of such divinity?_

"Erik."

He turned around quickly, for once caught by surprise. Seeing her hovering uncertainly in the doorway, he sighed softly, the motion of his fingers coming to a halt. He seemed to be in one of his melancholy, introspective moods. "I didn't hear you come in."

"I didn't wish to disturb you. Your music… I cannot describe how moving it is."

He shrugged with feigned indifference. "I only play what I feel."

"Then you are the most deeply feeling person I know."

He gazed at her with one of those familiar searching looks that seemed to penetrate the very depths of her soul. "You haven't sang for a while." It wasn't a question. Her mouth fell open in surprise.

"How did -"

A wry smile curved his mouth. "Because I know you. Better than you would like to admit."

Christine didn't smile back. Instead, she swallowed hard, suddenly heartsick. For her father, for the past, for missed opportunities, she could not say. She tried to speak past the tightness in her throat. "You're right. I haven't played or sang in - oh, such a long time…"

"Why?" he demanded quietly.

"I couldn't bring myself to. I thought if I did…" Her voice lowered to barely a whisper, "…my heart would break."

His face softened, a choked sigh escaping him. "Oh, Christine."

Her entire body trembled at the pity and longing in his voice. _He knows, _she thought with a rush of emotion, _how much it means to me, how he healed me, so long ago. I always forget, and I shouldn't. He may have committed deeds of unspeakable evil, but oh, he has done such good, too._

"There was something I wanted to ask you." She took a deep breath, the conflicted emotions tightening painfully in her chest. "If I am honest with myself, I've been meaning to ask for a long time now."

Erik was staring fixedly down at his hands, as though afraid of betraying too much emotion. She could hear the shuddering intensity in his voice; one lingering, beautiful note. "Ask."

"I was wondering if you would give me singing lessons again."

He looked up sharply at that. "You're sure, Christine?"

She felt the strength of his gaze on her, and a choking feeling rose up in her throat. "I'm sure."

"Why?" he demanded. "Why now?"

"I miss it," she said, simply. "You have no idea how much. Or perhaps you do. And… I thought it might be good… giving you something to keep you occupied –"

Erik's face was tense and taut, but his eyes blazed with sudden fire. "Spare me the feelings of pity," he said flatly. "I would prefer your hatred."

The whiplash change of mood was startling. She stared at him, wide-eyed. "You don't mean that."

"Oh, _don't _I?" he flashed.

Christine was bewildered. Why was he so angry? She thought suddenly of his insufferable pride and wondered again how Erik could loathe himself yet be so narcissistic. "Did you think I was patronising you? Because I wasn't. I only wanted to help –"

"Oh, I know. You always want to help. And you do – with the expression of a victim tied at the stake. I am _tired_ of being your martyrdom. Did you ever consider how painful and _humiliating _it is for me to know that you look at me and see not a person, but your _penance? _Perhaps I no longer want to be the whip for your self-flagellation, the altar at which you can abase yourself. Did you ever think of that, Christine?"

Her mind was reeling, shock rooting her to the spot. Those obsidian eyes were like looking into a hollow void. _Is that what he thinks this is… Is that what I'm doing?_

"Erik –" she said. "It was never about – I never meant –"

He laughed, and she winced at the cruelty in the sound. "And I thought _I _knew something about self-loathing." His quiet, tightly controlled voice cut through her like a laceration to the heart. "Let me know when you decide to stop punishing yourself and start living again, Saint Christine. Because I'm starting to think I liked you better flawed and fallible."

No… she wanted to help him, not tread over him as a further means to secure her own place in Heaven. Did he really think her capable of doing that to him? After everything? Did he have no idea what he meant to her _at all? _Her eyes had begun to sting with passion and hurt.

_I thought it would stop, _she thought. _But it never does._

"Why are you so willing to believe the worst in everyone, Erik?" she said quietly.

He winced at that, and she saw a poignant flicker of emotion in his dark eyes. She knew him well enough to read him now, and saw the expressions that rapidly passed through those passionate orbs. Bitterness, vulnerability and - yes - guilt.

"I'm sorry," he said, in a low voice. "That was unfair."

Christine felt her heart soften at the obvious sincerity in his words. Sometimes she wished she had the ability to hold on to her anger. Now wasn't one of those times. His violence, as always, was balanced by tenderness.

She drew closer to him until she was standing by the piano stool where he was seated. Without thinking, her hand came up to rest against his masked profile, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath the black fabric, the magnificently carved lines of his powerful jaw. Erik stiffened at the touch but did not move away. Her fingers slowly traced a tender line across his cheekbone. She was so heightened to the sensation, the feel of him, that her voice seemed to come from a very great distance.

"If I've made you think that being here is making me miserable, I'm sorry. Because it hasn't."

He drew back slightly, so he could look into her face. "It hasn't?"

"No. It has made me… confused. Uncertain. But not unhappy."

"I'm glad," he said at last. "I couldn't bear you to be unhappy here."

There was such desperation in his voice that she wanted to draw him into her arms but she dreadfully feared he would flinch away. She was leaning over the instrument, her long hair falling down and brushing his shoulder blades. "Play to me," she said softly. "Like you used to. Before anything came between us."

He looked into her wistful eyes. "You won't sing?"

She smiled faintly. "For now, I think I'd just like to listen."

Erik stared at her a moment, then nodded. His fingers brushed the keys, almost tentatively at first, before beginning to play with that surety and vigour so unique to him.

It was the same, yet different, different… No disembodied voice was this, drawing her with invisible chains and unseen authority. How could she have ever thought so for a moment? How could she in all those years have never realised this was a man? A man who had brought death and destruction while giving her life and hope in the same instant. Soulful and spiritual, passionate and primal, a living, breathing contradiction. Would she ever understand him? She knew this proud, furious man better than anyone, yet in many ways he was still a stranger to her. She watched him play, as one entranced.

His shirtsleeves were rolled back slightly, revealing a strip of honey-coloured skin. Nowhere was the contradictory nature of Erik more evident than in his hands. Large and strong and powerful, hands made for labour, yet artistic enough to breathe divine music into the body of any instrument. The memory of the things those hands had been able to do to _her _was something she would rather not remember.

Unwillingly, she recalled his words. _You feel something _far _stronger towards me, and be assured, Christine, I _will _uncover it. _

She watched the slow, almost languorous movement of his body as he leaned back slightly in the seat, losing himself in the completeness of it. The broad expanse of his back beneath his shirt was arched slightly, drawn by madness, magic… who knew? She had given up trying to know, trying to understand. His music had hypnotised her for longer than she could remember and it no longer worried her. The only thing she feared was that he would never stop.

And in the meantime, if she drowned in the patterns, the tide, the rhythm… then she would drown.

* * *

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	25. Babylon

**The Mask and Mirror**

_Oh let me see your beauty when the witnesses are gone  
Let me feel you moving like they do in Babylon  
Show me slowly what I only know the limits of  
Dance me to the end of love _

(Leonard Cohen – _Dance me to the End of Love_)

Chapter 25

_Shadows were swinging above him. Round and round, round and round. He was lying on his back, scarred flesh soothed by the caress of silken sheets. There was the heavy fragrance of incense, of oil lamps burning. His senses were muggy, hazy, aware of nothing but the shivering thrills of anticipation that rippled along the surface of his skin. Like an opium addict, he was burning, dreaming, deliciously imprisoned in this cloying darkness where temptation uncoiled around him, bending over his naked form, a perfumed wave of dark hair spilling across his lower body -_

_Then he realised that it was Christine, Christine trailing kisses up the path of his bare thigh. Traces of smoke coiled and unfurled in the thick air; but the room was blurred, indistinct, there was only Christine, her lips burning against his skin, the heat of her as she knelt between his thighs. He buried his face in the scented mass of her copper-tinted hair, muffling the animalistic growl that escaped his throat._

_His hands fisted in the gauzy material of her chemise, the fabric lightly grazing his knuckles as he pulled the skirts upward, exposing her pale thighs to his carnal gaze. He needed more of her, more than he could see through the undulating shadows that simultaneously revealed and concealed her seductive form. He traced his hands along the sinful curves of her waist, sensitive fingers exploring the delicate bones of her hips, exerting just enough pressure to make her breath catch with the not-quite-pain of it. Through heavy dark lashes he regarded her face flushed with desire, her lips parted slightly and swollen with kissing. Fierce hunger burned within him. He could not resist lowering his face towards hers, drinking in the ripe, decadent taste of her mouth, sweet and drowning. The heat of it pooled within his lower body, the surrounding humidity was nothing compared to this... _

_Silk, candlelight, shadow. She was panting now, all innocence and naivety gone, nothing but darkness and passion and need, need, need. Every heated inch of her body pressed against him through the burning silk of her chemise. The scent of her was like uncorked incense, heady and intoxicating. And beneath that, the desert-wind smell of Alger, invigorating yet ancient. He felt the hot, silky slide of her thigh against his, her back arching under his possessing hold, the line of her throat bared in a gesture of sweet surrender - _

"_Wait," he said suddenly, his voice a ragged breath as he stilled her movements with his hands. "Tell me you love me."_

_Her eyes opened, heavy and dark with desire. "Love you?" she breathed. "I've always loved you. There was never anyone else. The very thought of you consumes me. The _feel_ of you -"_

_But he needed no more. He groaned into the curve of her neck, pulling her closer to him as he entered her in the same, swift movement. _

_Perspiration slid in slow trails across their exposed flesh as they moved together, skin against skin, thigh against thigh. There was something almost hypnotic in the agonising slowness of it, every sensation heightened to an exquisite tension. Christine was breathing hard, teeth pressing into her lower lip as her face contorted with pleasure. _

_His sweating hands slid upwards to entwine with hers, fingers gliding languorously together. She twisted her hips, sending ripples of pleasure through his body. Nothing but their mingled gasps, swallowed in the heady air. She threw back her head, damp curls cascading over her shoulders as she moaned aloud. God, she was perfection, utter perfection, a sweet, glorious madness, Aphrodite reincarnated in the body of a deceptively innocent chorus girl who even now had her legs entwined with his as she tightened her hands in his hold and cried his name -_

Erik bolted upright, gasping. In an instant, he threw aside the sheets and staggered over to the window, hands tightly gripping the sill as he leaned out, swallowing down the sultry dawn air. His entire body was afire with sensation, throbbing, craving, _burning - _

His bed was a mess of tangled silk sheets and perspiration. Night after night a place where memories of Persia mingled with his obsessive thoughts over Christine. This was driving him mad. The heat, her proximity, the seclusion… God, he could not go on like this. If he did not take her soon he would surely die. His grip tightened on the sun-warmed stone sill, his chest heaving. Unrelenting against his closed lids was the image of Christine leaning over him, uttering words she would never say in her waking hours. _Love you? I've always loved you. _He could still recall the sensation of her legs tight around his waist, her pronounced moans, the rhythmic, desperate movement of her body as he drove deeper inside her - _stop this, stop this, stop this!_

Even in Paris, it had not been this hard. Back then, he had primarily watched her from afar, followed her with his eyes, yet remained the ever aloof, untouchable angel hidden beneath the earth while she passed her days above. But now… having her so close to him day after day, sleeping barely metres from him, the fact that she did not flinch from contact with him and occasionally even touched him of her own volition - nothing suggestive or overt, of course - but she could not realise how maddening it was, this torture of having her so close yet so unattainable.

How could she both save him and damn him at the same time?

He still could not bring himself to believe she was here of her own volition. Certainly, she had softened towards him, but he could not shake himself free of the awful memories, remembering what had passed between them, her anger and her hurt.

_I wish I had never come here, _she had said to him after that terrible scene in the marketplace_._

Had she meant it? He tried to tell himself that she had spoken in anger, that her heartfelt pledge to remain at his side overrode those hastily spoken words. Erik knew that Christine saw someone better when she looked at him. She saw what he might be. What he _could _be. But still he sought refuge in darkness, never daring to hope… He had long ago become used to the shadows, cloaking himself in darkness so effectively it became his very own skin, always lingering there, in his very core. But he yearned for light, for flames. Like Prometheus, he had dared to pursue the fire and had his heart torn from him as a result. _And like Prometheus, I too would endure every day for the rest of eternity if there was but a hope that she might reciprocate such passion._

But no. He smiled grimly. How could she? She knew enough of his sins even without the knowledge that by night he lay tossing and turning, maddened by the fierce pulses of desire that throbbed through his body, through his heart. The darkest fantasies his imaginative mind could conjure, scenes that would put even the harems of Persia to shame. And she had no idea…

Erik sighed heavily, vainly trying to suppress the tremors wracking through his body. One might have mistaken the shaking for tremors of extreme emotion were it not for his flushed skin, the perspiration clinging to his body, the flaming passion within his eyes.

Oh, he would have his fire. But it would not come in this life. In the next, however… in the next, he would burn forever.

Erik clenched his jaw. His gaze fell back on the bed, the rumpled, discarded sheets, his mind taunting him with images of Christine lying there in languorous bliss after a night of dark passion. But such joys were not to be his. Only once had he thought she might possibly… Only once had he come close to embracing the flames -

It was then that he suddenly remembered what day it was.

* * *

The twenty-fourth of February.

A year ago.

A year since _Don Juan. _A year since that fatal fire. A year since her life at the Opera Populaire had ended.

Christine looked at herself thoughtfully in the mirror. This time last year she had been a pale ghost of a girl, strained and hollow-eyed. She was relieved to see she had regained some weight, losing the gaunt, emaciated appearance she had had on first returning to the Girys' household. Her chest strained slightly against her bodice, and her collarbone and shoulders no longer had that alarming protuberance that signified deep unhappiness. Her cheeks also had more colour to them now. She looked… healthy. Her brown hair fell in loose waves over her shoulders and down her back. She unthinkingly began to pin it back, but her reflection blurred before her as her thoughts wandered back to the events that had taken place twelve months ago on this day. And everything that had happened between, those long months of her engagement… How distant and dreamlike it all seemed. Those events were like viewing the world through a veil of rain and mist, that unaccountable sensation of being removed from it all. None of it was as real as here, this present, the hard seat she was sitting on, the white lace curtains letting in a glare of sunlight that glanced along the dark floorboards, the faint perfume given off by the pots and bottles on her dressing table. No. _This_ was living. Not those long, empty-filled days of regret and missed opportunities.

In front of her, the mirror blazed with late afternoon light. The heat of it danced across her skin, a pulsing glow warm against her eyelids. It would not recede until nightfall.

Erik had remained elusive all day, presumably preoccupied with errands. It was not uncommon for him to take off for hours at a time, or to request that he not be disturbed. She had not been able to find him since she had risen, so instead had entertained herself with perusing his book collection and exploring the hills behind the villa. The surrounding scenery was starkly beautiful, sun-scorched dunes broken by the dried grasses, the slight greenery eventually stretching away into the broad expanse of unending desert. A couple of trees provided rare shade from the blazing sun, and Christine had already decided she would one day take herself out in the twilight hours. How beautiful it would be to lie out on the hilltop grasses and watch the stars blazing overhead, their constellations foreign and strange, so much closer than they had ever appeared in Paris. And the surroundings that she had at first thought of as silent were not so - the rustle of scrubbed grasses in the faintest breeze, the constant hum of crickets - all primitive sounds of nature back when the world was young. So different from the noise and clamour of Mustapha. They had gone back several times - all at her suggestion - and she saw that Erik granted these bequests grudgingly. He would not, however, hold her a prisoner here.

Yet ever since the incident at the market, he had been twice as vigilant when she expressed a desire to go, holding her tightly to him with those firm hands, dark eyes flashing fire on anyone who should dare come too close. Christine was unnerved at his potential for violence being so reawakened, but another secret part of her felt a subtle thrill at the sense of danger, the _intrigue_. Nothing with Erik was ever predictable or followed any sense of routine. It was frightening. It was exhilarating. Since coming here, she was beginning to realise that she felt more alive than she had in months.

And his music. Oh, his music. Nothing else in this world had such power to evoke unspoken emotions or touch forgotten memories. In those hours she was sharpened, _awake, _every sensitive nerve in her body humming with a finely-tuned tension that strung according to the rising and falling cadences of his voice.

He was as strict as ever; his love of beauty and perfection had made him a hard taskmaster, but it made those rare moments when he chose to give her praise her all the more saw more than ever how he lived in music, how it expressed any and every emotion. Melancholy, love, darkness, memories, hope, pain.

That small music room had become a world unto itself, transporting them to many different places and times. Sometimes she would leave these lessons with her heart wrung with sorrow and yearning from his peculiar melodies: wild, melancholy and elevating. At others she would be chilled by haunted memories of ghosts, almost awaiting Death to lay its cold fingers upon her shoulder and beckon her away. Or she would ask him to play religious pieces, and the room would resound with glorious music, powerful and heartbreaking, yet ultimately hopeful and uplifting. In his fiercer moods, Dies Irae would thunder from the instrument and in her mind's eye she envisioned legions of heavenly hosts arrayed in dizzying splendour for battle. Music that seemed seraph-brought from a divine altar to prophesise the End of Days.

She and Raoul had spent distant years ago treading an enchanted way of childhood fancy together, but somewhere, the road had branched off and they seemed to have separated paths. And Christine felt strangely abandoned with no youthful, wayward companion at her side, and the road of imagination was a lonely one to travel with no one to share it with.

Yes, imagination. That was what she rediscovered in those elusive, flickering, fire-lit evenings, standing across from the tall man bowed over his instrument with a brooding reverence. A strange electric energy thrilled through the nerves, making his voice richer and deeper, her own heights of ambition almost transcendent. Or perhaps it was an elixir that sharpened her vision in the dancing half-light and heightened the senses, making things clearer that were not visible by the light of day and to ordinary eyes. Together, there was nothing they could not achieve. Her imagination and passion struck sparks from his. A fire glowed within him and she almost fancied:

_Divinity within them breeding wings._

During those lessons, he no longer seemed a mere man, but something much greater, a kind of demi-god… or was it a demon?

* * *

Twilight had descended over the sun-scorched continent, the night sky outside the windows had turned a deep, velvet blue. The interior by contrast was lush and warm, the light of the candles casting shadows across the long table, picking up the crimson hints within the swirling decanter of wine and dancing along the well-stacked bookshelves that lined the wall. Erik was seated at the table, Milton's _Paradise Lost _open in his lap. A large hand curled around his glass; he took a sip of wine, savouring the warmth of it coursing down his throat, the cloying rich flavour that lingered sweetly on the tongue. His dark eyes were drawn back to the text before him, the captivating words possessing a magic only his music could rival. The fourth book had always been his favourite; too well could he identify with Satan hovering on the edges of the Edenic garden, filled with furious envy at the bliss within, the insatiable desire awakened in his first glimpse of the beautiful Eve, reminding him of what he could never have…

He had spent all day in the busiest heart of Alger, throwing himself into the very centre of the markets, the cafés, the crowded port… anywhere he could take himself that would serve as a distraction from the wrestling torment in his mind and body. He had been reckless in doing so, he knew. Had he been recognised or done something to draw attention to himself, it would have been the end. Yet a part of him would have relished a fight, action, _something,_ just to relieve some of this pent-up tension in his body -

The sound of a door opening and closing drew his attention back to reality. He looked up as he heard Christine enter the room.

And choked on his glass of wine.

Swallowing hard, Erik realised he was blatantly staring, but somehow couldn't bring himself to stop.

He had seen Christine in many styles of dress during his tenure as the Opera Ghost: the scantily clad attire of _Hannibal, _the virginal white in her very first debut, even the ruffled silks in _Don Juan. _But those were all costumes, required for whatever role she was playing on that particular night. In her own clothes, she had always dressed with modest decorum. He hadn't quite bargained on this. He had a vague memory of buying the dress back in Paris. It had been more of an impulse at the time – something to put away and imagine her wearing when his thoughts turned toward the more libidinous. He had never actually expected to see her _in_ it.

The dress was of black satin, exposing her startlingly white shoulders and the elegant line of her collarbone to his hungry gaze. Seeing the corset taper in at the waist, highlighting _every single curve, _it left little room for wearing any cumbersome petticoats, which she quite evidently wasn't. The bodice offered him a view of more bare flesh than he thought he could safely handle at this point. He averted his gaze downwards, which presented him with equal temptation. Light silken skirts clung tauntingly to her legs as she walked forward with a sweet modesty completely at variance with her choice of attire. For the hot Algerian climate, the cool, lightweight dress was understandable. For his self-control, it was a nightmare.

He wondered whether a year ago she would have dared to wear anything so provocative. The sudden thought that she might be wearing it _for _him caused him to hurriedly cross his legs. She had not pinned her hair back, either. True, this was not Paris, but even the women in Algeria always covered their hair; the sight of Christine's shimmering curls left loose to cascade down her back in rippling waves struck him as both intimate and incredibly erotic.

Was she doing this to deliberately torment him? After everything he had done to her, she would be more than justified in making him suffer. But no. Christine could never resort to such cruelly manipulative behaviour. He was as certain of that as he was of anything.

He noticed too that she had regained the weight she had lost during the crossing from Marseilles. Although she would always be pale and slender, there was a clear and ardent animation in her features that was rarely seen; it brought a flush of colour to her cheeks and there was a bright, vivid expression in her eyes rather than dreamy absence: tonight, she seemed more a brilliant flower of paradise than a wilting faded lily. Not since _Don Juan _had she looked so passionately intense. Something like savage triumph flared within him. _This _was the Christine he knew existed beneath the trappings of social convention and mild-mannered decorum, the spark of fire that had been so long suppressed it was almost extinguished. Could this vibrant, healthy young woman be the same pale and fragile creature he had pulled into his carriage all those months ago?

In Paris, she had been beautiful, but that beauty was all innocence: chiffon and lilies and moonbeams, not sensuality and silk and crimson. In the lambent flicker of candles, the highlights of gold in her hair and scent of fragrant oils on her skin, Erik thought inexplicably of Cleopatra, who had managed to bring the Roman Empire's two most powerful men to their knees before succumbing to the serpent's deadly bite. He felt poisoned himself, something like venom flowing through his veins, drowning, paralytic.

Erik shifted in his seat. She seemed completely unaware of the effect she was having on him. Was it really possible she could be so naïve?

Christine could not help but notice Erik's sharp intake of breath as she entered, the darkening of his heavy eyes. An expression both profound and primitive that momentarily paralysed her. The naked desire in his eyes was so different to the restraint of Parisian high society that she had become immersed in during her betrothal. When he looked at her like that, it made her think – think what? Prickling heat crept across her skin. She decided not to follow the thought to its logical conclusion. She already felt open, exposed, and terribly warm. The silk on her body rustled as she moved, making her even more self-conscious, so she stood still, feeling the warmth of the room surrounding her. After stepping in from the cool stone hallway, the sensation was like sinking into a hot bath. The air was heavy with a thick, rich scent. It was Alger, the musty-amber smell, the sun beating down on desert sands at midday, but also something else… incense and wine and - could it be - roses?

Memories overcame her, vivid, startling. Silken petals in her dressing room, black-bound with ribbon, such a variance from the garish hothouse flowers she was accustomed to receiving. Yes, she remembered well the roses he had once given her. Always roses. But she had been too young, too naïve, to comprehend the thorns that their lustrous beauty had concealed. How very apt for Erik. Beauty bound with inextricable pain.

Long slanting rays fell on him where he was seated at the table that was lit by the soft glow of candles. He was dressed with a refined elegance; his jacket above the poet's shirt was exquisitely cut, and it struck her again as curious that a man with a crippling disfigurement could be so fastidious about his appearance. His thick black hair was tied at the nape of his neck with a bow. His wine-coloured collar was edged with gold thread embroidered in an Ottoman pattern, fine and intricate against the stark black of his cravat. He wore the clothes well, as well as Raoul even, who had been born into wealth and gentility. Only with Erik, there was always that edge of danger, of the unrestrained that the gentlemanly accoutrements could never fully contain.

Yes, that was the real difference between them. There was no cruelty in Raoul, no touch of menace. At twenty-two there was the same open honesty in his face that there had been at twelve. Trusting blue eyes revealed his soul with hopeless ease. In her dark and confusing world, he was the one pure thing she had left. Was it any wonder she had loved him? _And love him still, _she reminded herself.

"I didn't hear you come back," she said at last.

"That is because I did not wish to be heard."

Christine hesitated. His long absence and the deliberate coldness in his tone implied this was one of those times he did not wish to be disturbed even if his eyes said otherwise. It had happened often enough that she was not offended by it; it was simply another one of his caprices she had become used to. "If you want me to leave -"

"Don't be ridiculous. Sit down. Please," he added, as an afterthought. Even now he was far more likely to give orders than polite requests.

Christine obediently took a seat as Erik laid aside his book and poured her a glass of wine. She was still anxiously fingering the cool folds of her dress. Compared to the garments she had become used to wearing over the course of her engagement, the light gown against her bare skin was wonderfully liberating. No paint on her face, no glittering stones heavy around her neck and in her ears, no bejewelled hairpins driven through her curls with savage force. Nothing to make her feel like a dressed-up mannequin, a porcelain marionette that smiled and spoke on cue. Gaudily bedecked, an object of exterior beauty, and empty inside. Controlled by the strings of society and upper-class convention. Christine shuddered slightly. Better not to think of that now. Not while she didn't have to. Now she should just appreciate this, here, just… _being._

Soft candlelight glinted along the rim of her glass. She took a sip; the wine was deep and full-bodied with a pleasantly lingering aftertaste. It could have rivalled the finest vintage bottles found in the de Chagny cellar.

She looked around the room, its shadowy corners, the oriental carpet, the leather-bound books on the shelves. Her eyes fell on a pair of matching urns, carved in the shape of lions, both staring at her with lazy, half-lidded gazes. The faded gold designs shimmered in the half-light, the colour of sand, or linen bandages against a background of burnt umber. One of the urns was chipped, and she longed to run her fingers over the worn stone that must be warmed by the lights in the room.

"They are based on Ancient Mesopotamian designs." Erik's soft voice startled her. "Like the kind found in Babylon." The tones lingered sweetly, heady as the intoxicating aftertaste of the rich wine she had been consuming. It was making her rather light-headed. She drank often enough in Paris, it was part of the culture, but it had always been at the de Chagny estate, after a several course meal.

"Babylon," repeated Christine wonderingly, the name potent and exotic on her tongue.

"The name means the Gateway to the Gods."

"I did not take you for a great reader of Holy Scripture."

"Something about the story fascinates me. The decadence, the splendour. The intoxicating delusion man has of his own unshakeable power."

This subtle dance had become familiar to her now, words, phrases, illusions. The candles flickered in the still, heavy air. Through half-closed eyes she watched as the flames danced, beckoning, welcoming. She remembered other heat, other fire, a stage ringed with torches and crimson-clad figures slipping through the shadows. "It was sinful," she said at last, though her voice shook slightly.

"Oh yes. But it was magnificent." His tones were rich and deep, that old and well-remembered enticing cadence. She released a slow breath. His voice had haunted her every night and every hour, whispering through the dark in those long sleepless vigils. It would follow her to the ends of the earth.

Shaking off such thoughts, she took another sip of wine, savouring the rich and spicy flavour on her tongue. She stared down into the swirling dark liquid, lit by the soft hue of the surrounding lights. "Such pride leads to its own downfall."

"So you think they got what they deserved?"

"Yes." Her voice was soft. "We all get what we deserve eventually."

His gaze ran over her like a caress. Both a sweet promise and a dark enticement. "Sometimes we have to be masters of our own fates."

"Were you in charge of your fate when you chose to fall from grace?"

He raised his eyebrows at the directness with which she put the question to him. "There were circumstances… things happened to me." His gaze hardened. "It was not a fall of my choosing. _My _Hell isn't self-imposed."

She shook her head, the abrupt movement disorientating her slightly. "I thought you had read Swedenborg, Erik. Heaven and hell are not places, but states of mind and being."

He stared at her. When had she become so knowing? "I have never heard you talk like this before."

"Perhaps because you never cared to. You are so quick to take offence at the slightest remark that it becomes almost impossible to converse with you."

He wondered if it was the wine that had loosened her tongue, or whether she was merely becoming comfortable enough to tell him what she was thinking without fear of an explosive reaction. He cringed at the memory of some of his past outbursts. Had he really been such a brute to her, all those months ago?

A frown furrowed his brow as he watched her. A solemn, pensive expression had clouded her face. Unlike most girls - Madame Giry's daughter, for instance - Christine was not more beautiful when she smiled. Rather, a quiet radiance shone through when she was serious; a melancholy that sweetened and enriched her features, the sadness adding a soft grace note to her translucent beauty. Without that touch of grief that always lingered in her expression her brown eyes would have been too insipid, her mouth too guileless. With it however, she was a vision. _And it was all my doing._.

Did she regret it? The life she could have had if he had never encountered her? He supposed they would never know now.

"Christine," he said heavily. "I know in the past things have been difficult between us. I know we have caused each other pain, I do not understand why it is, but –"

"You know why, Erik." She smiled, a little sadly. "We come from completely different worlds."

"I rather think it is because we are too similar."

She shook her head. "How can that be?"

"Is it really so strange to you?"

Christine looked away, her eyes falling on the faded spine of his discarded book. It had clearly been read many times. Staring at it, she recalled uneasily that Satan and Eve had both been the dreamers in _Paradise Lost. _Perhaps then the danger lay not in the fact that they were opposites or enemies but rather were too much alike, too attracted to each other. She looked back up at him, confused. "I don't know."

His deep-set eyes softened into melancholy as he looked away, past the warmth and light of the room to the darkness that gathered in its corners, the night sky visible through the opened window. Far above, the bright stars glinted, diamonds scattered in a sea of midnight. Cold and untouchable. Erik felt something inside him ache. He realised now that he had never been untouchable. Not really.

"Sometimes I think it is easier for us to fight." His throat felt hoarse. "To take refuge in hatred. To hide from truths we otherwise could not bear. Believe me, I am a far easier man to hate than to love, Christine."

She looked at him pityingly. "Do you really believe that?"

"I've been given enough cause to," he snapped.

The abrupt transition from sombre reflection to acerbic irritability was startling. Christine sighed, refusing to let herself be riled by the flash of temper. Erik was leaning back in his chair, a dark, brooding, glowering figure as he drained half his glass of wine and immediately began to refill it. His expression behind the mask was thunderous. Almost impossible to imagine this very man had recently been kneeling at her feet, looking up at her with agony and imploring as he begged her to forgive him of his sins. She took another drink, her thoughts awhirl.

Who _was _he? Angel, Phantom, Don Juan, Opera Ghost? The identities swirled around her mind in a bewildering haze. How different from their first meeting when she had known such clarity. She remembered when he had first come to her, that blinding rush of conviction and ecstasy that had thrilled her soul. And later that night, she had knelt at her bedside, weeping for joy. Oh, so long ago…

"You're not an angel, are you?" she finally mused aloud.

"No, Christine," he said, more gently now. "I never was."

"A fallen one, perhaps," she whispered. Her thoughts were becoming rather muddled. Exiled from Heaven and left to burn in Hell: powerful, enraged, brooding for eternity. Both hungering for the light and despising it. Perhaps the evil that had been gnawing at him for so long was too deeply rooted in the core of his being for her to save him from. But he had not fallen through pride but out of love, was yearning for that love, desperate for that love –

The room shimmered before her in a haze. A vague, dreamlike sensation had settled over her. Past and future entwined in a delicious blurring of darkness and longing. The lush and sensual ambience of the room seemed to have permeated her skin, sending the blood through her veins in a languorous surge. Heat was pooling within her body in a curiously pleasant sensation. Was she becoming inebriated? If so, the feeling was too tantalising for her to care. She leaned forward to better look at Erik in the flickering light. She could trace out the vaguest hints of his features: the square jaw, the strong, defined nose, the broad forehead. He was wearing the black mask again tonight, the one that covered almost his entire face, making it impossible for her to read him. Except for his eyes. They promised something more, so _intense.._.

Christine was leaning forward. Erik wished she wouldn't do that. He was already trying very hard to keep his eyes on her face rather than anywhere else. She was clearly not comprehending the effect her actions were having on him, and that in itself merely fuelled the fire smouldering within him. It was that very contradiction that fascinated him; the glass-like fragile exterior, the fire beneath. The intriguing combination of her innocent purity and her seductive appearance was almost too much for his self-control. If Christine had been confused by the many guises he had assumed, he was no less bewildered by her. Virgin Incarnate one moment, tonight she was bewitching as Scheherazade herself. His fingers ached to trace the elegant contour of her collarbone, to slide downwards to the inviting flesh visible beneath the watered silk. Just to reach out a few scant inches, to see the breath catch in her throat, the dark eyes turn heavy with awakened desire -

Her complexion was glowing in the warm half-light; her dark eyes had taken on a deep, lustrous hue. It almost seemed that the passion within them reflected his own. His eyes fell again on her pale shoulders exposed in the warm lamplight. The sight of so much bare flesh was maddening. They couldn't go on like this, thought Erik. If something didn't happen soon, he was going to explode.

He wanted the entire world to disappear, to have nothing but himself and Christine, this night, this hour, under the cover of darkness. He could almost persuade himself this thin veneer of formality was merely a prelude for something more, something that had been burning in his blood ever since _Don Juan. _If her Vicomte could only see her now…

Christine drew a slow breath. She wished the window had been opened a little wider so she could feel the cool night air across the skin of her bare arms. The atmosphere was warm, too warm, and muggy, heavily scented with incense and burning wax that had begun to drip onto the table in hot globes. It was cloying her senses. Her surroundings were gradually blurring into insignificance. There was only Erik, solid and real before her. She wondered if he too was experiencing this sweetly pleasant lightness of body and mind, every sensation heightened and intensified. Everything was falling away but this warmth beneath her skin, those reservations her calm and sober mind maintained being stripped aside as she sank ever deeper into this haze of intoxication.

Who would have thought a year ago that she would be here, sitting before this dangerous man who had made her burn with passion and freeze with terror? The memories caused a flush of heated colour to tinge her cheeks. That night... she had clutched him on that stage with such wild abandon. And now if she reached out a few inches, her fingers would be buried in the billowing silk of his shirt, able to feel the hard muscled flesh beneath and the heart that beat for her, only for her…

Her shaking hands pushed her empty glass towards him.

"May I have another glass?"

As Erik began to pour from the decanter, he could not help but notice the wine had stained her lips a deep crimson. He wondered if he would be able to taste the dark liquid on her mouth as those lips would meld, sweet and pliant beneath his own –

"Thank you," she said politely, soft hands brushing against his as she took the glass.

His abdomen clenched. She had no idea how much he wanted to tear the dress from her body. _No idea_…

_Keep talking, _he thought at her grimly. _Distract me._

Fortunately, she seemed quite willing to do just that. She was certainly less reserved after a couple of glasses of wine.

"What were we saying?" Christine frowned. She was quite light-headed now. "I've forgotten."

"We were talking of angels."

"And of you."

The sides of his mouth curled upwards in a faintly bitter smile. "You cannot make an angel out of a demon, Christine," he said.

"All demons were angels once."

"Yet there were wars in Heaven and angels of light became angels of darkness and destruction. Angels that could kill. And they will never, _never _be redeemed."

She stared at him, dark pupils dilated in the dim light. "Forever is a very long time, Erik. Do you truly think that those who repent and do penance would be turned away by God?"

"_Revelations_ speaks of an everlasting fire prepared for the damned, for the devil and all his angels."

She shook her head slowly. "How can you know so much of Scripture when all you do is reject it?"

"How can you know so much of Scripture and still argue in the benevolence of God?"

His words faded into silence, a warm and muted silence that was unbroken save by the sound of the crickets outside. The candles had burnt low, throwing the room into deeper shadow. The scent of hot wax mingled with wine clouded the senses. Christine was leaning back in her chair with a languid kind of drowsiness, eyes half-closed. Her fingers were drawing invisible figures of eight along the rim of her glass.

"I never thought I could feel so relaxed," she murmured, more to herself than him.

Erik frowned slightly, wondering how much she had had to drink. He wouldn't have said she was intoxicated, not exactly, but she was certainly less demure and inhibited than was normally the case. Yet her words were not slurred and she appeared to have retained her sense of coordination. She seemed well enough. It might even do her good, to relax a little. She had been carrying the weight of his burdens for so long.

His eyes fell on the delicate, fine-boned hands that were curled around her wineglass. They seemed steady enough. Yet when she put the glass back on the table, she did so a fraction too violently, some of the dark red liquid sloshed over the edges, staining the dark, polished wood and her slender fingers. She did not appear to notice.

"Perhaps you should have some water," Erik advised.

Christine looked up. Drops of spilled wine glinted like rubies in the candlelight, vivid against the startling whiteness of her skin. "Why?"

"I do not wish you to become inebriated. It is not –"

"Proper?" The harshness with which she snapped those two syllables stunned him into silence. He had never heard Christine speak with such aggression before.

"Christine, what –?"

She was glaring at him, and he thought there was definitely a slightly unfocused look in her eyes now. "Perhaps I am _tired _of being proper, Erik."

"I did not mean to -"

"Everyone thinks I am so fortunate." Her fragile shoulders began shaking with barely suppressed laughter. Erik stared at her, eyes widening in genuine alarm. "If they knew… I hate it. All the ceremony and the servants, having to say and do the right thing all the time, to be quiet and good – it makes me want to scream. God forbid I should actually ever say what I think. Sometimes I thought I should go mad. You told me once that you were imprisoned, but you at least could see the bars of your cage. And mine is a cage… a cage of gilt and glass with bars of gold. To be looked at and judged, day by day, to know no rest except in those moments when I could be alone with Raoul and wish the cold, callous world away, and to start the whole interminable routine again as soon as the sun was risen – imagine it, trying to build a heaven in the hell of society. I said to Raoul once that we should run away from it all and be married in secret like something from a romantic novel, and he laughed. He thought I was joking."

Erik held himself very still, his eyes blazing. He knew it. He _knew _there had been something, back when he had first properly set eyes on her when he had taken her beneath the Opera House all those months and months ago. That instinctive suspicion that there was something restrained beneath the surface, desperately trying to escape. Since coming here, that repressed passion had been awakened again. Perhaps he was not the only one in need of saving. Or perhaps it was merely the wine putting words into her mouth. It was too much to hope that…

"You need never feel like that with me, Christine," he said. "I hope you know that you can always be yourself here. Never be afraid of doing or saying exactly what you like."

"That's not what I'm afraid of here."

"Then what?"

"I don't know," she said.

"Not of me, I hope."

"No – I mean, sometimes." She stumbled over the words slightly.

"I would never hurt you, Christine. You know that." The confidence with which he spoke concealed the fact that he was no longer sure what he would be capable of if he didn't withdraw from her. Quickly.

"Not intentionally. But you do. More than anyone, in fact."

Erik winced at that. He hurriedly poured out a glass of water and pushed it towards her. She ignored it, instead taking another sip from her third - fourth? - glass of wine. There was something hauntingly sensual in the way she slowly lifted the glass to her lips, how it exposed the elegant line of her throat when her head tilted back – all the more enticing in that she was apparently entirely oblivious to it. He tried to drag himself away from such thoughts but it was no use. He was utterly enamoured by her sensual grace and beauty. He wanted his hands entwined in the dark hair that fell so seductively over her bare shoulders. She was close enough now that he could smell the perfume rising from her skin. He realised he was speaking before he could stop himself.

"They all still think of you as that sweet and naïve chorus girl. Antoinette. Her daughter. Your precious Vicomte." He saw vague surprise flicker within her eyes at the mention of Raoul. He continued speaking, his eyes never leaving hers. It might be madness, but something told him she would not remember this conversation in the morning. "They will never understand the fire that burns beneath."

"But you do," she whispered. She was looking - no, staring - at him with a curious mixture of serious contemplation and slowly dawning understanding. "You've always known me, Erik... haven't you?"

"Yes," he said.

He saw her eyes close, a slight shudder passing through her at the simple affirmative. She was close enough that he could feel the warmth of her skin. Erik gripped the edges of his chair to steady himself. His tension was rapidly mounting and he did not dare consider what he would do if she did not withdraw. God, she was so close… so warm… the serpent in his Eden…

"I once thought nothing could touch you." Her voice was slow and languid, the delicious sweetness of intoxication blurring the softly spoken syllables.

"Nothing did," he said in a low voice. "Before you."

Christine frowned slightly, her tongue darting out to lick the traces of wine from her lower lip. Erik inhaled sharply as his eyes followed the movement.

Christine found her gaze being drawn to his mouth, a line dark and grim and decisive above the square jaw. Did he never smile? Inky lashes lowered as she focused intently through the warmth and blurring atmosphere that had clouded her bewildered mind with scent and darkness. Surely those lips were made for sensuality, not sneers? No longer cold, immovable marble as she had once so foolishly assumed…

"You were always so cold… and stern… and unreachable. Like a fierce, terrible angel. I never realised you were a man beneath the hard exterior."

Erik held himself very still, hardly daring to breathe. Was she aware of what she was saying? Keeping his voice carefully guarded, he asked, "And now?"

"Now… I cannot escape it." Her tones were soft, wistful. "To know that a heart beats beneath that façade of indifference. That _I _caused it to beat. You have loved and hated and wept… and the fault of that is all mine."

He did not try and contradict her. Why should he? The words were true enough. There was a crushing pain tightening inside his chest, a mingling of desire and confusion and part anger. What exactly _was _he to her? She did not love him. Perhaps she did not even like him.

But what, then?

He levelled his stern gaze at her, trying to discern her expression that had a fevered intensity to it, no doubt brought on by the amount of wine she had consumed. She already seemed to have forgotten what she was saying. Her eyes were too bright, shining with both unshed pain and inexplicable yearning.

"You are so much, Erik. Sometimes I think you will consume me until there is nothing left. And sometimes I think I would not mind if you did."

"And yet you will never let yourself," he retorted bitterly. "You still cling to childish dreams of fairytales and happy endings."

"Then why is it that every time I believe I have renounced you, something always draws me back?"

Erik stared at her through hooded dark eyes. She herself had just stated the reason for all of this. "That is why I will never stop pursuing you," he said.

"Even if it means you would be waiting forever?" Her eyes were bleak with misery. "How can you resign yourself to such pain?"

"I am well used to that pain, believe me." His voice was hard. "I think the worst thing I ever did was love you." The truth came easily to him now, perhaps because her unguardedness has similarly broken down his own barriers of body and soul.

Christine sighed, her head lolling to one side, dark hair spilling over her bared shoulder in a tumbled, fragrant mass. Erik's fists clenched as he forcibly restrained himself from twisting his hands in those curls and dragging her head towards him, covering her mouth with his own. "Only because you love too fiercely. You feel so intensely, Erik… so _passionately… _you make _me_ feel…"

"What?" he demanded sharply, "Feel what, Christine?"

Erik jumped violently when she reached out, her fingers taking hold of the fabric mask. Her hands were shaking unsteadily but he was more aware of the fact that they were also warm and soft -

"Christine…" he said warningly. His mind was reeling. His flesh was burning with barely suppressed desire. "Don't –"

"I want to see you, Erik. No more masks. I want to see… who you really are."

The rational part of his mind desperately fought to reason with him. _She is intoxicated. She doesn't know what she's doing - _

The other part - the demon beneath the surface - whispered, _This is the only chance you will ever get to be this close to her…_

His hand tightened on the glass he was holding. He knew he should move away right now; end this at once, but God, the feel of her delicate hands against his skin… No man could resist such temptation. He could not help but lean into the caress. God help him, he couldn't stop…

Where had it gone, the anger, the bitterness, the hurt? There was only the passion. Oh, how he wanted her… to have her surrender, to plunge into her and satiate this maddening longing, to feel, at last, truly _alive…_

"You cannot be in hell," said Christine suddenly, her fingers still warm on his skin.

"What makes you so certain of that?" he asked, his voice low and serious. The scent of her was intoxicating.

"Because you have never known heaven."

A light flared in his eyes an instant then faded with weary knowledge. "No," he said, staring hard at the glass in his hand. "You're right. All my life and I never have."

He felt the tantalising rustle of silk as her leg accidentally came in contact with his under the table.

A hairline crack appeared in his wineglass.

With an almost painful slowness, she began to pull the mask from his face, the fabric causing a brief, rough friction against his skin before soft fingers replaced it a moment later. He could feel her pulse, light and fluttering, like frightened bird wings against the fevered heat of his exposed face. The tentative touch became a tender exploration, gliding along his hardened cheek, the firm line of his jaw. He released a shuddering sigh, painfully aware of the heat gathering in his lower body. Never since Eve was a woman so tempting –!

"So alone," she whispered. Her breathing was ragged, unsteady. "My proud, lonely Erik."

His wineglass fell against the table with a discarded clatter. He caught hold of her shoulders, breathing hard. Desire was pulsing through his body, frenzied, maddening. Her pale flesh yielded so easily, so soft and pliant and willing beneath his hands. She would surrender to him completely. It would take nothing to extinguish the remaining candles. They would not even need to go to his room; there was chaise against the opposite wall that would be perfectly adequate for –

God Almighty! What was he thinking?

She belonged to another man. Moreover, she was in no state to be thinking rationally. He would be taking advantage of her innocence, her vulnerable state and the trust she was starting to regain in him. She would hate him for it. It would be wrong and, and… he was mad with fire. His hands were gripping her shoulders painfully, inflamed eyes drinking in the pale skin exposed solely for his gaze. He wondered how it would taste and how she would respond, writhing in his arms, her breathing quickened. The tightness in his trousers was almost unbearable. Her breath was warm on his lips.

"Christine…" his voice was hoarse. "What is this?"

"A taste of heaven," she whispered.

Reason abandoned him. He would willingly embrace eternal damnation at the price of such sweet torment. Everything in his body was crying out to touch her, to taste her soft skin, to lift her skirts and slide his hands towards the delicate, secret flesh beneath and have her whimper with need -

This was it. To Hell with morality. To Hell with consequences. He leaned forward.

"Erik…" she breathed against his mouth.

And slowly –

Silently –

She fell asleep.

Erik sat very still for a few moments, staring down at her curly head resting in his lap, waiting for his heart rate to slow. Then, carrying her over to the chaise, he very gently laid her down on the cushions, brushing the wayward curls from her flushed and heated face.

Slowly, he stood up. Slowly, he walked back over to the table.

Then he picked up the pitcher of cold water and tipped the contents over his head.


	26. Escape, Part 1

**The Mask and Mirror**

Chapter 26

She found the Persian standing in the alley behind the boarding house, his dark head tilted back as he inhaled deeply from a cigarette. It looked small and oddly out of place between his ringed fingers, as though those large, dark-skinned hands were more comfortable holding cigars and opium pipes. Tendrils of smoke trailed across the hot, heavy air in curling threads, thin and potent-smelling as they dispersed in the alley.

"Must you smoke those things?" Antoinette criticised, more out of habit than any real sense of irritation.

Nadir turned at the admonition, saw her, and smiled measuredly.

"I must admit, I find them rather lacking compared to what I am accustomed to. But they do evoke memories of Persia with surprising vividness." Then he shook his head, and she could almost see the fragments of old memories disappearing into nothingness as he came to himself. "Where is Meg?"

"She's upstairs. Sleeping." Madame Giry did not add that things had been tense between the two of them ever since their argument over Raoul. No doubt the Persian probably knew, anyway. The man had an annoyingly omniscient ability to read what was unsaid, those infuriatingly calm eyes able to hold all kinds of knowledge within their elusive, charcoal depths.

"And there's no sign of -"

"The Vicomte? No." Suddenly, she was rather tempted to snatch the cigarette from his fingers and crush it viciously beneath the pointed toe of her steel-capped boot. That, or take a drag from it herself.

Nadir seemed to sense her irritation. Long black lashes briefly swept his high cheekbones as he murmured, "I was unable to sleep, anyway. I thought of taking a walk through the town. I might find him along the way."

"Then, if you have no objections, I will join you." Antoinette did not say why: that she could not spend another night at Meg's bedside, watching the girl sleep, soothing back the blonde hair that clung to her young, damp skin. It took her back too many years, to the days just after her husband had died, when she had sat for hours on the starched cotton sheets, murmuring soft lullabies to the sleeping child. The daughter she loved so altered, yet unchanged. She still smelt of youth and fever, honey and tears. It made her ache.

Nadir's melodious voice startled her, dragging her from the recesses of a past she had tried so hard not to remember. Her head jerked up as she stared at him, her eyes hard and glassy. His heavy brows stood out like two thumbprints of streaked black soot.

"Tell me something. Do _you _think she's safe? Christine Daae, I mean?"

"Yes," said Antoinette, realising to her surprise that this was true. "Yes, I do." She did not know where this conviction came from, but was grateful for it all the same. "Right now I am more concerned about the Vicomte."

"After what happened -"

But Madame Giry fixed him with a stern look. It was a look that said _you cannot placate me with lies._ "Do not pretend that he is alright. He's out every day, trying to discover some trace of Christine. When he comes back he just shuts himself in his room."

"Alone?"

"He sees Meg," she conceded reluctantly.

Nadir looked at her curiously with those beautiful, languid, melancholy eyes. "Why?"

Antoinette pursed her lips. "He talks to her. More than he does to us, at any rate."

"At least he has found someone to confide in_._" A pause. "What do they talk about?"

"I don't know. She can't - or won't - tell me."

"You disapprove," observed Nadir calmly.

"I have my reasons."

"You don't trust he'll keep her safe?"

"Oh, I've no doubt he's capable of protecting her. It's just his _methods_ I don't approve of."

"We'll just have to trust he'll do the right thing." The Persian sighed. "It's all we can do."

* * *

Quick, pounding drums, the clash of tambourines and tantalising glimpses of gleaming bare flesh from the limber bodies of dancing girls. Raoul watched it all and felt nothing.

He thought back to Paris, to the social life of glitter and ease of which he had once been the soul and centre. The rustle of crinoline dresses, refined laughter and the low hub of excited talk, tinkling voices speaking in hushed whispers of gossip and contemporary scandal. Midnight serenades and piano concertos carrying through the perfume-scented air. Cigarettes smoked on the terrace in the cold Parisian night while couples stole away to the secluded gardens for amorous interludes. That indefinable yet ever-present aura of glamour, sophistication, far more intoxicating than the light-headedness of pale-gold champagne drunk from thin-stemmed glasses.

A world away from half-naked prostitutes contorting themselves to the clatter and thump of drums while crowds jostled each other aside to get a closer look. Raoul wasn't sure how many nights he had been coming here now, or even when he had discovered the place, deep in the smokiest, seediest part of the town, a place where the darkest and most primitive desires could find their secret outlets. Smoke and noise and pressing bodies. The earth seemed to shake beneath his feet. It was so loud he could no longer hear his own thoughts. Perhaps that was the appeal.

He knew it was wrong of him to come here, but he couldn't stop.

He couldn't stop.

Yet he did not feel guilt. He did not feel anything. There was something missing or dead inside him. He had expected tears and remorse but there was nothing left. What was wrong with him?

Only once before had Raoul ever felt like this - in the aftermath of Philippe's death. The sensation that he was moving through a dim fog, that the voices of everyone around him seemed to come from very far away. It was easier to be numb. To be cold. And somewhere in that time, his heart had frozen. The memories had become a blurring, dull ache. He had lost too much. There was nothing left to feel. He was a shell that moved and spoke empty words. Breathing. Barely.

Yet deep down, he wanted nothing more than to be the youthful, hopeful young man he had once been. Warm. Loved. Happy. Oh God, he had been so happy. Why had he never realised it? Happiness was something he had taken for granted. He had never thought about it before, had never stopped even for a moment to appreciate it and say to himself, _I am happy. I must remember this._

But that was before. Before… everything.

Before Philippe had died. Before Christine had left him. Before he had turned into a liar, a hypocrite, a murderer.

God help him.

He still saw it in his dreams. The man, the man he… _murdered. _Over and over in the darkness. Hands stained with blood, tainted, unclean. Like his soul. He didn't recognise his own face in the mirror anymore. Didn't recognise his own skin.

He didn't want to be himself any more. He wanted to be anyone, any_thing _else. He could no longer stand the company of Madame Giry or Nadir, both of whom were reminders of his failure, ties to his former world. They did not know him. Not the real him. They did not know that he was deceiving them. Coming here night after night while they thought he was playing the part of the ardent and faithful lover that never gave up hope.

Hope?

Every day that passed killed a little more hope. And in the end, wasn't hell simply the absence of hope? He had read that somewhere. Or perhaps Christine had read it aloud to him out of one of those Bibles that would have remained untouched on his shelves had she not picked them up, blowing the dust from their leather-bound covers. She had always been the religious one. She was the one who believed in God and angels and salvation.

He had never asked her if she believed in damnation.

It would have been easier if he had been a man of faith. If he believed he was being tested, that this was all happening for some higher purpose. But it wasn't.

He was dead inside and it was all for nothing.

Enough. Enough self-pity. Enough longing for a past that was forever dead to him. He would not arise from the ashes. Nor did he want to. He was just tired of it all.

He hated the world, so he had found a shadow-world, to go with his shadow-self. Here, he was a stranger. Here, he could be all those things he had become and it would not matter. Cold. Cruel. Selfish. Empty. All the things he had most hated, once. But in this place he did not have to feel guilt, or have any kind of former life to haunt him. No one knew him. Better for them, that way.

Noise, vivacity, rhythm. Raoul saw them in glimpses: a slender, agile wrist, a mane of black curls, the curve of a tarnished waist adorned with gold that rattled with each vigorous twist of the hips. He looked and listened with emotionless disinterest. He felt nothing beyond a vague, detached lust. Not one of them could compare to the simple beauty held in Christine's tremulous smile, the melancholy sweetness in her eyes, the softness in her voice…

No. He was not going to think about that. Not anymore. It hurt too much. She wouldn't want him now. How _could _she want him like this? How could anyone?

But they did here. Because they did not know him. Because he was a stranger. Because they did not care. These women who danced for money and offered themselves freely, heavy dark eyes scrutinising him with slow, languid admiration. He could have used any one of them, taken them as an unfamiliar stranger, poured his violence and darkness into a willing body and forgotten himself in this world of shadows. But he hadn't. A part of him wondered why. Surely even that would be preferable to this interminable stasis. Why did he not just end this pitiful struggle, lose himself entirely in the darkness and never look back? What was stopping him?

"There you are."

He looked up. And then he realised with a resigned sense of despair. Meg. The last thing in this dark, torn-apart world he _did_ care about. He had tried to shake her off, to be detached from her, but she would not let him. He didn't have the energy to fight her any more. He looked at her through narrowed eyes.

What a contradictory thing she was, tiny, the top of her head barely at the height of his shoulder, but so much energy in her diminutive frame, brimming with life and vivacity. There was a glow of colour in her cheeks and a brightness in her eyes that seemed to have absorbed the energy from the twang and rhythm of the guitars. She had drawn a shawl around her small shoulders although the atmosphere inside the tent was muggy. With her tanned skin and dark eyes against the contrast of white silk, hair darkened to ochre; she looked like a gypsy, something exotic that would not be out of place in the semi-circle at the centre of the marquee where the rattle of tambourines and the flash of multi-coloured scarves whirled by in a dizzying, ever-changing blur.

"Did you follow me?"

"Yes," she said, simply. Her lips were pursed with irritation; the resemblance to her mother was startling, and caught him off-guard. He waited for her to say something. That, at least, he could count on her for.

She didn't disappoint. "So this is your attempt at trying to find Christine?"

"I wanted a night off." He noted with a vague satisfaction that his reply had incited her; her pretty face flushed. For a moment, he was tempted to see just how far he could push her, to make her lose all control. The thought was a subtly thrilling one.

"So you didn't invite your mother or Nadir to witness my degradation?" he continued, knowing he was provoking her.

"They haven't seen you in days." Meg added silently, _And they think _I'm_ at the boarding house, asleep. Where I should be._

"Don't pretend they miss me."

"_I _miss you." Her wry mouth curled up at the edges. "If that means anything to you."

He gestured with a lazy hand. "Then join me. Watch the show."

Meg looked over the dancing girls with a superior, sneering elegance - an expression she had not worn since leaving the Corps de Ballet.

"No, thank you," she said, stiffly.

"Don't be prim. It doesn't suit you."

She almost started laughing. _No one _had ever called her prim before. Not when she had been popular and free-spirited and vivacious. Not when she had been the best dancer at the Parisian Opera House. She could put _any _of these girls to shame. Their movements were bold, brazen, entirely lacking in grace or technique. Yet in spite of herself, the music, the earthy, liberated abandon of it called to her. Enclosed within her delicate, dainty shoes, her small feet began tapping out a rhythm on the hard, earth-packed ground. Her eyes followed the swaying movements, fascinated.

Raoul leaned in close to her, close enough to murmur in her ear, "Don't you ever want to cut loose? To forget it all? Paris, duty, the entire horrible world? Imagine escaping it all." He waved a hand at the dancers. "Look at them. Do you think _they _care about anything?"

Her heart was beating fast - fast as the festival drums. "I know what you're trying to do," she said. "And this isn't you."

A laugh, dark and bitter. "You know me so well, don't you, Meg? Well, perhaps I know you as well. And this mothering act isn't you, either. What happened to the Meg Giry of the Parisian Opera? The Meg who had every ballet rat idolise her and every man desiring her? The Meg who was so alive that everyone else seemed dull and listless in comparison? That's the Meg Giry I want to see."

She looked away from him. "There are more important things to think about."

"Don't deny a part of you finds the idea appealing. I don't think you've ever been shy in your life. Besides…" His mouth curved. "You always struck me as more of a dancer than a singer."

She was surprised at how easily he was able to read her. Surprised - and a little annoyed.

"You are far more beautiful than any of them," he said, and the very lack of affect in his emotionless voice struck her all the more powerfully. She had received many compliments before, yet had always mocked the men who had courted her with eloquent speeches that were pretty-sounding and meant nothing at all. Or the admirers who composed sweeping elegies about her eyes rivalling the stars and similar clichéd nonsense. Why, she had spent night after night curled up in the Opera Dorms with other girls, shrieking with laughter at some of the papers that had found their way into her hands. At other times she would listen to stuttering declarations with a solemn face, only to later mimic the suitor with cruel accuracy for the benefit of the ballet rats waiting eagerly upstairs.

The energy and euphoric thrum of the music faded to a dull background haze as Meg stood there, abruptly heartsick.

She missed Paris. She missed the light-hearted, gossipy world, she missed the chatter of other girls and she missed her pretty things. Perhaps she was just shallow like that. But she would give anything in the world to have it back.

Well. Almost anything.

Meg looked across at Raoul. Looked at the hyper-real clarity of his face in the ever-shifting lights, the chiselled profile that had maintained its remarkable symmetry even after having gone through so much. Events of the last few months had not stolen his looks; she would even have gone so far to say it enhanced them. There was something in his expression that had formerly been lacking; his was a face that had seen life, but never _lived_. Now experience was manifest in his features: the deepened contours and sharp lines, the coarse, sun-browned skin, and brooding defiance gave it a shape and character all of its own. Was it this element of subtle danger that had drawn Christine to Erik? _That's completely different, _she told herself sternly. _Don't make comparisons._

"Didn't you notice that every man looked at you the moment you walked in?" His eyes moved over her in look that... but then it was gone. "A Parisian… delicate, blonde… you would be a sensation_. _Do you really think they would be keeping their distance if I wasn't with you?"

Meg looked around. It was true, she was certainly on the receiving end of more than a few smouldering glances. She wished she had thought to put something over her conspicuous blonde head. Next to her, Raoul was very still. She could sense how tightly wound he was beneath the languorous exterior, clearly prepared to launch himself into a bare-fisted fight should there be any unsolicited advances. Somehow, she got the impression he would have relished the chance of a fight, to give in to that kind of violence. She wasn't about to give him the excuse.

"Come on," she said. "I'm taking you home."

He looked at her, laughing a little. "Home?"

"Now," she added, ignoring the pang that his words struck within her.

* * *

Back through the darkened streets and twisted alleyways, the town a rioting carnival of rust. The night air embalmed with spices, travelling in scorched currents across the dark. By the time they reached the boarding house, her mother and Nadir were nowhere to be seen.

In his room, the darkness burnt like an oven. The blinds were drawn up in the window. Dust swirled in the air, catching on the walls, the floor. His bed was open, a single thin sheet thrown back. The stale smell of liquor hung in the air that had turned heavy with the setting of the sun. For some reason, this did not surprise her. It had been inevitable perhaps, that he would seek newer and more drastic sensations to numb himself.

The dust was dry, parching_. _Meg found herself longing for rain, rain such as they had in Paris, that turned the air to grey mist, the cold, clear droplets pounding on the roads, streaming icy and slick from passing carriages, fat drops that would glide slowly down umbrellas, the shock of cold moisture sudden and startling against the back of her neck, sliding beneath the stiff, starched collars her mother forced her to wear. She remembered the smell of it, too, the sharp clearness that came afterward, remembered it with a vividness that was painful.

It never rained in Alger. The hard blue sky of day turned to scorched copper at night, lit from below by the madly swinging lights. She imagined roiling clouds billowing across the wide expanse, the air sulphur and thunderous, the ground thrumming and the sky cracking open. The rain would come down in sheets, a warm and humid veil drowning the world into sodden canvas and red clay, cloying and sweet-smelling. Wash away the dust of ages, cleansing everything.

But it never did.

There was music playing somewhere. Outside, where the lamps were swinging and the night dancing, somewhere very far away. There was only the drumbeat through the walls, both distant and near, pulsing, constant. Beating through her very blood. Raoul was lounging against the table, head tilted to one side as he watched her. He peered closer suddenly, the bored indifference on his face replaced by an expression of concern. "You look tired."

"You don't need to act like you care."

Raoul stared at her, something akin to softness in his eyes. "I care." He sighed as she scoffed. "You don't believe me? You should know better. You know I wouldn't lie to _you._ Everything else has turned to madness. I've lost everything. You're the one thing left that matters to me."

_What about Christine, _she wanted to ask, but did not dare.

"Stay a while," he said.

Meg hesitated.

_I shouldn't be here. I'm going in too far, too deep -_

_But he needs me._

_As much as you need him?_

Then_ to hell with it_, she thought. When had she ever done the sensible thing?

She bent over, lighting a candle. Raoul swallowed hard. She was dressed in a starched white muslin dress, the shadowy contours of her figure visible through the slightly worn fabric. Something cold and empty inside him awakened with a small, burning flicker. Something that wasn't numbness. He stared hard at the table, concentrating all his energy on filling two glasses with a clear, amber liquid. When he looked up, the candlelight had brightened the room the hue of tiger's eyes, of a hunter's moon. A hazy, self-enclosed world of dim light and moving shade.

Meg heard a loud _clink _and the splash of liquid spilling from the dark glass bottle, catching the pulsing glow of light. Oblivion in burnt sienna. The smell of alcohol intensified, so strong she could almost taste it at the back of her throat. Raoul approached her slowly, his lean figure appearing through the shadows. He handed her a glass. Wordlessly, she took it, trying to suppress the tremor that passed through her hand at the brief, flaring contact.

Raoul dropped into a chair, his long body stretching out languidly. Grey eyes scrutinised her, half-lidded, lazy, curious. "I thought you'd want to be done with me." He toyed idly with the glass in his hand. "Go and see your mother."

"We had an argument," she retorted shortly.

"About what?"

"Well," she said, "About you."

A brief expression of remorse flickered across his face. "Meg -"

"Don't apologise. I'd rather forget it."

He raised his eyebrows slightly at that. Then his long leg stretched out, shoving another chair towards her. She sat. Raoul raised a glass at her, half-mockingly.

She frowned at him. "What are we drinking to?"

"To forgetting. To burning our bridges." _To the fact that nothing matters._

She knocked the drink back, once again feeling the stinging, burning sensation scorching down her throat, firing her insides with unnatural warmth.

"Is that what _you_ want?" she asked after a moment of silence. "To forget?"

"I might as well." His voice was resigned. "I'm not going to see her again."

"Raoul –"

"I've been lying to myself for so long, just telling myself one more day should do it. But I've known… known for weeks now. Christine is gone. And nothing will ever bring her back. Yet I told myself to keep trying. Because…" His brow creased in a slight frown, as though he could no longer remember why.

She cradled her glass in her hands. "I understand this is hard."

"No," he said wearily, brushing back the bronzed hair that was falling into his eyes. "That's just it. You don't understand. No one understands."

"Then tell me."

He looked at her thoughtfully, as though trying make up his mind about something. "If I did, you would probably hate me. I know that should bother me, but I don't know if it does anymore. And that's the problem."

"What are you saying?"

"I can't feel anything, Meg. I think something in me has died. I want to miss Christine, perhaps a buried part of me does, but I can't get at it. I've been broken and it's stopping me. There's nothing there. I'm… empty."

She took another gulp of whiskey, this time hardly noticing the burn. Raoul mirrored the movement with a brisk, practised flick of the wrist, draining his glass. It seemed to give him the courage to go on.

"Why do you think I drink in my room at night? Why do you think I go out? It isn't some drug to numb the pain. It's to justify this sense of emptiness. Mask the fact there's nothing to feel."

"If you're afraid -"

"Afraid?" he echoed with a hollow laugh. "Is that what you think? No, I'm not afraid. And it isn't bravery talking. It's this thing, this numb feeling inside of me. I can't feel fear, either. I left that behind, too, when I came here. I've forgotten who I am. And I don't know how to go back."

_Back to Paris and youth, back to innocence, back to when I livedlaughedloved -_

But that was a world away. Where he _should _still be. None of this was meant to happen and he wondered how it had come to this; the wrong place, the wrong life, the wrong girl. Wrong _everything._

His voice was low, thoughtful. "The first time I remember seeing Christine again was her debut performance of _Hannibal. _But she told me it was before that… when I first visited the Opera Populaire. I don't remember seeing her. I remember seeing you, though. You were dressed as an Egyptian slave. You had those two Managers watching you like dogs staring at a chunk of meat, and looked as though you knew it, too."

Yes, he had noticed her. How could he not? He had seen her flirting with men at the Opera, laughing, surrounded by people. She _thrived _on being the centre of attention. But that night he had seen Christine again and after Christine there was no room for anyone else. There never would be. Not for him. He raised his eyes almost reluctantly, as though afraid of what he might see.

Meg was seated opposite him, catlike, her legs curled up beneath her. A few strands of dark-gold hair fell in elf locks around her small face. He leaned forward in his seat.

The candle through huge shadows across the room. The atmosphere was heavy, thick, she felt it like a heatwave against her bare arms, the fine hairs prickling in response. She could smell the bitter not-unpleasant tang of spirit, and it seemed a wave of intoxicated light-headedness had passed from him into her blood, rendering her slightly dizzy at his proximity. She was warm, so warm, and she dimly realised it was his hands, his fingers on her, light and scorching -

"How strange it is," he was saying softly. "That a few months ago, I barely registered your existence. If I thought of you at all, it was only as Christine's friend. And now… you're the only one I can talk to. Sometimes, I feel like I'm drowning, and you're the only thing keeping me afloat."

He held her face in his hands, looking deep into her eyes. She clenched her jaw, willing herself to remain still even as fire surged through her blood, energy sparking across her skin.

Raoul saw something flare in the whiskey depths of her eyes. The candlelight picked out the smooth lines and rounded shadows of her face, vivid and intent. _Tigers eyes and hunter's moon. _He could still hear, faintly, the rattle of tambourines outside. _A_ _sensation, _he had said, back at the Kasbah. His mind tripped and spun.

He could give in now, and end the fight. It would be easy, almost.

"What is about you," he mused aloud, "That makes me spill all my deepest, darkest secrets to you?"

She merely looked at him and said nothing. For once, she was unable to find words to speak. His fingers traced the line of her jaw, slow, deliberate. There was a strange fervour in his eyes, unknown emotion rendering them a darker blue than she had ever seen, startling against the sepia tones of the close confined room. She felt his warm breath, whisky-tainted, softly against her cheek.

"Perhaps it's because you don't judge. Don't condemn."

She could see his bare arms where the sleeves were rolled back, his exposed throat, the once pale, aristocratic flesh burned to beaten-gold. Her hands tightened around the glass that had begun to sweat, slick from the moisture on her palms. His closeness stole her breath. The words brushed her skin, a current of hot air, heavy and sweet. "The whole world's gone mad and you're the only sane thing left in it…"

He was watching her beneath half-lowered lids with a slumbering kind of expectancy that made every muscle in her body tense. The candlelight wavered and flickered, causing a tiny flame to leap in his blue-grey eyes. She wondered whether it was merely reflected or came from within. It was hard to tell in the shadowy darkness. She inhaled the close warmth of his body, a strong, bitter musk. Tempting her closer. Closer.

Abruptly, Raoul stood up and walked across the room. She traced her tongue over her lower lip, tasting the sharp tang of whiskey. Her eyes stung. When her vision cleared, he was standing a small distance away, still facing her, and she reflected that it was bitterly unfair that the one person she wanted was the very one she could never have.

"You should leave." He sounded wearied.

Her head was thudding - or her heart. She stood up a little unsteadily - _how much _did _I drink?_ She had never realised how much taller than her he was. Or perhaps it was the shadows, the shadows throwing everything out of proportion. The candle flickered madly, globs of wax dripping onto the wood, burning with the aroma of heavy musk and alcohol fumes in the muggy air. Meg set her chin. "So you would push me away, too?"

"It would be better - better for you, anyway."

She ignored this. "Why do you hate yourself so much?"

"Because -" He exhaled in frustration - "_This _- all of this - is my fault." He didn't _want_ her to forgive him, or condone him… God, did he really hate himself so much? He did not want her frustrating _goodness. _He wanted her fierce-tempered and arrogant and liberated, free from all restraint. And, if he was not mistaken, she wanted that too. He wanted to escape, yet she was forcing him to remember, remember all of it -

"Nonsense," said Meg, an edge beginning in her voice. She breathed in, trying to calm herself. _Don't get angry, don't get angry… _"How were you to know what would happen?"

Raoul stared at her. He had killed a man, bullied and bruised those who stood in his way, lied to those he was meant to consider as friends - how could she ignore those things, still want to be here, with _him?_ And he wanted her here, that was the truly, bitterly hilarious irony. If he were to sever himself from her entirely, he could be left alone in the dark and maybe find some measure of bleak satisfaction. It would so much easier. But no, he let her stay near him, and all that she reminded him of.

God, he really was a masochist.

Suddenly - madly - he wanted to laugh. The whole thing was such a bitter farce.

"You think it matters what I _knew? _Not knowing didn't change what happened. That night I drove Christine away - drove her halfway across the world. And I must take the blame for it."

Her jaw tightened as she tried to force down the anger simmering through her flushed body. But something - the tiredness, the whiskey - had made her reckless. "This is _not_ your fault."

"Isn't it?" he retorted, challenge flaring within the depths of his eyes. "Didn't I doubt her? Didn't I say those things to her, things so awful that she ran out alone and unprotected into the night? This all happened because of me. And now I'm being punished for it. I made such horrible accusations, when she was far better than me, better than anyone –"

"Oh, stop it!" she shouted suddenly, startling him into silence. He stared at her, for once completely thrown. "Just… stop! Stop making excuses! I am sick and tired of you making excuses. Frankly, I don't care if you're crippled with guilt and self-loathing. There are hundreds of people out there whose existences are just as miserable as yours, and they make the best of it, because that's life. Not a punishment. Not some divine judgement. Just life. And even if you _are _being punished, so what? It's not what you are that counts; it's what you _do_. We're not _all _innately good like Christine! The rest of us have to work at it, and struggle, every second of every day – it's just easier for you not to try, easier for you to think you're a terrible person to satisfy this unhealthy self-torture of yours. Just for once, let yourself feel something, and stop being so damned proud to accept help from the people who are actually trying to help you. You're too scared to let yourself care for anyone because you think it leads to pain, and pain makes you vulnerable. That's all. You are _not_ a bad person, Raoul – you're scared. I know Christine will come back to find herself engaged to a murderer, but I didn't think she was engaged to a coward as well! So you can be a coward and abandon Christine, or you can do the right thing for once and – _what?_"

She stared at him, breathing hard. Her heart slammed against her ribs. He had caught hold of her arms, his face blazing. The expression she saw there almost made her choke. Electricity shot across her skin.

"Meg –" he began to say, then pulled her sharply towards him, his mouth covering hers in a brutal, demanding kiss.

As Meg was quite a lot shorter than Christine, he had bend down lower than he was accustomed to in order to catch her lips with his own. Perhaps a part of him had expected her to push him away. Then he realised a moment later that he did not want her to. If there had been some subconscious longing, some half-acknowledged wish that it was Christine he was kissing, the illusion dissolved the moment his arms went around her. Kissing Christine had always been like a beautiful dream, a fairytale of romance come to life that he never wanted to end. Kissing Meg was like being struck by lightning.

Heat flared up inside him, warm as the whiskey in his belly, heat where he had been so cold and empty and despairing. It was as though he had been living in a drugged sleepwalk for the last few weeks and finally awakened. For the first time in longer than he could remember, he was _feeling. _The moment consumed him. God, the very _taste _of her, fiery, bitter, necessary -

At first the mere shock of it had her paralysed her against him. His hands slid from her jaw line to run over the contours of her face in a shaking caress. In the midst of the electric shocks that seared through her nerves like forked lightning, her hands found their way to his forearms, feeling the tensed muscle beneath the thin material of his shirt. She was dizzy with conflicting sensations. She was falling into darkness, responding to the hot, desperate kisses, the fierce, insistent thrust of his tongue against hers -

Then he _froze._

Her eyes snapped open _(when had she closed them?) _and she saw -

His stark, rigid face. Blue eyes, clouded with parts realisation, desire and horror.

"Stop," Raoul said, his voice harsh and ragged. He shook her slightly without seeming to realise it. "Stop. What are we doing?"

Meg was staring at him, flushed and breathing hard. He could see the swirling motes of gold in her dark brown eyes. For the first time, she seemed utterly lost for words.

He sighed heavily, lowering his head into his hands. For a while she could see nothing but the slivers of dark gold where the light fell on his burnished hair. She could hear him breathing. The dizzying sensation had left her entirely. Now there was nothing but a tight feeling in her chest, the blood of embarrassment still in her face and an awful feeling of guilt causing her to clench her fists in the crisp, creased fabric of her silken skirts. The thought of Christine alone was enough to make her feel utterly wretched. Would she ever forgive her for this? Would she ever forgive _herself?_

But she didn't move away at once, because just then, she saw a shudder pass through his shoulders. He was still breathing hard. And the way he was looking down at her… _no one _had ever looked at her like that before. With desire, certainly. But never with such a glazed, desperate sort of hunger -

"This is…" His voice was barely recognisable.

She pulled herself together. "We can't," she said firmly.

"No," he said vaguely, "No, you're right."

"I should go." Her voice faltered.

He nodded. "Then go." But he was still gripping her wrist. It was warm, the pulse beating rapidly, a throb of life beneath his fingers. He couldn't… he couldn't… let her stay, let her go. Either way he would be damned. He was lost and wrong and he was drowning, and to hell, to hell with it all -

With the taste of whiskey still lingering on his tongue, he leaned forward, and as he found that soft, intoxicating mouth again, he heard a faint warning voice in the back of his mind. _This isn't right. This isn't really what I want. _But he had gone beyond that. He knew that what was he was doing was awful, probably the worst thing he had ever done, but he couldn't bring himself to stop. He no longer had the will or the energy to do the right thing. The man Christine loved had already died, and if she was going to hate him, there was no point in stopping himself from doing anything he wanted to do. If he was going to fall, it might as well be completely.

And it was a sweet agony of a fall, in slow-motion, the world blurring to heat and mindless fever and soft flesh. Her small, warm hands simultaneously pushed and pulled at him, as though wanting him both to stop and continue at the same time. But she did not pull away. Perhaps this had been inevitable all along. And he couldn't fight it, didn't _want _to fight it. Not anymore. With burning fingers, he traced her face and neck, relishing in the feel of her body shudder against his own.

Suddenly, his assault turned passionate. He forced her back a few stumbling steps until they were pressed against the wall. She heard the creak of old floorboards beneath their feet then the rough surface of the wall vibrated against her back, the steady beat of drums throbbing outside, pulsing through her very flesh. His hands moved restlessly up and down her body, the touches becoming more forceful, more demanding, and it was frightening to realise this only made her want him even more.

He was staring at her through half-closed lashes. His eyes burned like gas-lit blue flames, more alive and fevered than she had ever seen. "Meg…" he said warningly. "I won't ask again -"

She knew what Christine would do. Christine would do the right thing. But she wasn't Christine. She wasn't a delicate, pristine ornament, a paragon of saintliness and virtue. She never had been. Raoul had seen through her at once. Too late to cling to old, long-dead moralities, this whole thing had been madness from the start, but still she had persisted, demanding a way in, and had got more than she had bargained for. Weeks and months of hunger and buried longings had led to this moment.

Her hands came up to his shoulders, but he couldn't tell whether it was to push him away or pull him closer towards her. It did not matter; he did not care. Nothing mattered anymore. His existence had already been shattered beyond repair, and if this was the only way he could feel something, than so be it. He was going to lose whatever shreds of his old life he had left but at that moment he thought it might just be worth it.

His shaking hands found their way to her hair, pulling the pins free, and letting the burnt caramel tresses fall over her shoulders, soft and honey-sweet. Her mouth was parted, whisky-tinted lips full and enticing. She tilted her head back, her throat exposed to his fervent gaze, an implicit gesture of submission, of surrender. His mouth returned to hers in a bruising kiss. She tasted of whiskey and spices, a heady mix slowly drowning him in this drugging sensation, helping him forget, and after all, wasn't that what he had wanted all along? To forget?

Raoul couldn't remember the last time he had been this close to anyone; but he needed this, he needed _something _besides the cold emptiness inside him. She whispered something against his mouth, perhaps his name, perhaps a warning, perhaps a plea, and he shuddered at the feather-light softness of it. He was aware of pleasure, blurring, dizzying, maddening, and he tightened his hold on her painfully. It had been long, so long since he had felt anything. He shut his eyes, firmly, the world outside snapping out of sight. He wanted to drown in the sensation of her slim body trapped between himself and the wall, her pliant mouth beneath his, the amber-and-saffron scent of her body. Everything else was lost in deep shadows.

Warm hands curled around her waist, fingers playing wantonly in the hollow spaces between her ribs, her sensitised flesh awakening as his exploration crept ever higher. His fingers were burning through her dress, the slip of fabric a frustratingly chaste barrier between his hands and her bare skin. She threaded her hands through his coppery hair, feeling a fierce rush as he released a hiss of breath in half-pain. She could see the desire in his eyes, feel the heat radiating from his body. His grip on her tightened, and she felt a rush of exhilaration as his roughness, for it was _her _that was making him lose all control like this, causing him to mutter feverish words against her skin, and it was _her _name he was uttering. It was all for her.

His lips were burning against her bare skin, the searing kisses rendering her incoherent. This was so very different from the previous kisses she had had in stolen brief moments behind the scenes of the Opera. This was no preening dandy or fumbling stagehand. What had happened to the light-hearted banter, the playful flirtations she had indulged in so frequently, brushing off a suitor's broken heart with a laugh and a shrug? She had always been the one in control, the one who held the power. She had never surrendered before, not to anyone. And now she was completely succumbing to this man who had given her no assurance, but was half-desperate with want. The tight, barely-there control was gone; he was no longer holding himself back.

He lifted her against the wall in a rough, desperate movement, her legs instinctively curling around his waist. She arched into him, feeling his hard thighs holding her up. The tense, muscled strength she felt there set her blood afire. His hands slid up from the curve of her waist to trace the shape of her breasts beneath the corset she wore, and she shuddered with pleasure -

How could she be doing this? How could she be _letting _him do this?

She was betraying her friend, her _best _friend, but then she had been doing that ever since the moment she had acknowledged her feelings for Raoul. She should have stayed away, but too late for that now, too late for useless regrets… She had always been honest with herself, never denying what she truly wanted. And she wanted Raoul. No, _craved _him. He might not love her, but right now she did not care. And if this one night was all she could have, then so be it -

His body was holding her up, hard, strong, muscular. Tiny currents were burning beneath her skin, leaving her flushed and heated. The heavy perfume drifting in through the open window was maddening. The drumbeat had intensified, throbbing through her very _being. _Slanting coppery light in the room bled and deepened, slipping into the concealed shadows of their bodies as they moved urgently. Their hands were on each other, unable to get close enough. Neither of them had moved towards the bed, as though by not doing so, they were convincing themselves this would not really happen. Neither did they speak, expect in the harsh breaths, the sighs and urgent moans that were drowned out by the clash and beat of the night-music.

So many nights Raoul had dreamed of Christine coming to him, her lips and hands soft and sweet with love and yearning and tenderness, but this was real, far realer than anything his whisky and exhaustion-hazed mind could ever hope to conjure in those long and sleepless hours. He would dissolve the last of his old self inside her, he would have oblivion -

He dragged his hands through the soft hair that brushed her shoulders as her head tilted back, the wings of her shoulder blades arching pliant beneath his hands. He pulled her closer in a rough, possessive motion. The feel of her skin burning beneath the light silk that clung to her body was taunting, enticing. Her smooth, honey-coloured arms were tight around his neck. The warmth, the smell of the Algerian night, the movement of her mouth against his were rendering everything else irrelevant. He discovered an intensity of feeling inside him, and realised he had to go on kissing her even if it destroyed him, destroyed them both, sent the world crashing down around them…

There was nothing innocent about this. Nothing like the sweet romance of his chaste courtship with Christine. This was passion, madness; a raw, undeniable hunger. There was something savage and primal in the sheer _want _that overwhelmed him. There was passion and fierceness in those maddening dark eyes, those eyes that saw right through him, into his very core. She knew him, the real him, and she was the only one that did not run.

_Betrayal. _That was what he was doing to Christine. He should care more than he did, and the fact that he didn't made it all the worse. It was all so distant. She was a part of that former existence, where things were _right _and made sense, not fractured and torn apart. There could be no going back. No more days of innocence, of laughter and sun-filled mornings. That world was gone forever. He had taken the plunge and the fall was endless.

The air was thick and hot, stifling, dark. He buried his face in her long hair, the sloping line of her smooth neck, where the pulse throbbed beneath the skin. He tasted the salt of perspiration and musky spices. As his seeking mouth moved lower, his head bent over her breasts, Meg's hands tightened painfully in his hair and he relished the pain. God, she was intoxicating, far stronger than whiskey or opium or any other drug he had sought over the last weeks to escape from his own mind. He tasted the soft swell of flesh and he tightened his hold on her, feeling her back arch beneath his hands as she pressed herself against the slick exploration, urging him on.

His mouth was everywhere, her neck, her shoulders her breasts, hot and damp through the thin fabric, the material clinging to her fevered skin after he moved away. The pressure of his body was hard and unrelenting, yet somehow not _enough_. She shifted impatiently in his hold, needing more, needing _something -_

Raoul slid the skirt up a few inches and heard her breath catch. He lifted his head to look into her face. Her dark eyes were half-closed, lashes brushing her tanned cheeks, long strands of dark-gold hair damp across her face. She was biting down furiously on her hands to keep from crying out. He had never seen her like this, so wild, so unrestrained. She was the most vivid, alive person he had ever known. She was also sharp-tongued, fierce-tempered, and too proud of herself by half. And she was the only person in the world who understood him. She was Christine's dearest friend, the last person he should be doing this with, and yet the only person he _could _do this with.

Christine was perfect. Christine was pure. Christine was clothed in holy radiance, sweet and soft and gentle. Nothing about Meg was gentle. She was brilliant and fierce, hair like copper wires, and sharp edges to go with her sharper tongue. The darkness only made that inner spark burn all the brighter. He wanted it to burn, to sear through flesh and bone and annihilate everything he had become.

Such a damned temptress, hair wild over her shoulders, no faceless Algerian concubine cloaked in veils and perfume and endless gold, but real, so very real. She was alive, she _was _life. He had spent too many nights cold and alone and dead inside. He was empty and hollow, he wanted those dark spaces filled with light and fire, to burn him alive. This was so wrong, he was wrong, terrible, _terrible… _yet the only way to purge this anger and revulsion and loathing and apathy was to keep moving his hands over the soft contours, to bend his head over the laces of her dress, to lose himself in the sensation of her, bring her closer, closer -

Shadows leapt over their moving bodies. Her caresses grew bolder, her palms hot as she fiercely tugged at his shirt and her lips met every inch of bare skin they could find. She could taste salt and copper and the lingering smokiness of the Kasbah. Her fingers tightened their clutch on his shirt, instinctively pulling him closer. Crisp fabric, hard flesh, hot lips seeking every inch of her fevered skin...

Meg wasn't aware of how she had managed to undo his shirt, only she had, and he was shrugging out of it, letting it fall to the wooden floorboards in a discarded pile. His bare shoulders were bronze in the dim light. Her hands slid over corded muscle and hardened copper skin, glistening with a sheen of perspiration. He was breathing hard, his chest rising and falling with exertion. The feel of that hard, strong body shuddering against her fervent exploration was intoxicating. She ran her palms over his chest, down to his taut stomach and firm hips until her fingers brushed against the rough material of his trousers and he groaned into her neck, muffled, incoherent.

His firm, warm thigh moved between hers. Heat pooled within her lower body, her insides melting to honeyed liquid. She was burning where she could feel him hard against her. Her hips shifted instinctively against his and he pressed into her in response, moving and rubbing against the silk. Her back thudded against the wall but she did not register the pain because it was excruciating pleasure and, God, what if someone heard? But the drums were pounding outside, and her core, and her pulse, pounding, pounding -

Her frantic sighs almost undid him. There was nothing but this; he was forgetting everything, all of it falling away. He was lost in the darkness and need. For the first time he could remember, he was giving in to abandon, breaking free from all restraints. And he was _feeling_. This was what he had been reaching for night after night in the Kasbah and had never quite managed, because he had been looking in all the wrong places. But now -

Only the frenzied, maddened rhythm, the mingled gasps and sighs, her nails digging into his lower back, her legs entwined with his. Oh, it was madness, utter madness… and he wanted her, that was the real madness of it, he wanted _her…_ The feel of her lithe body writhing in his arms strained him beyond all control, robbed him of all breath, of all thought. So help him, he had to be inside her or he would surely go mad -

The dress clung to her damp skin and Raoul pushed the skirts upward, seeking bare flesh, so soft and yielding and inviting. He wanted to be buried within her, to end the madness and the struggle. To burn every last bridge. The movement of her pelvis against his arousal racked his body with mindless sensation, he had to touch her, had to have her -

_Right - _

_now_ -

She felt herself drunk on the scents, the sensation, her senses reeling as his hands slid beneath her skirts to sweep across the soft, sensitive skin of her inner thighs. Then higher, brushing her undergarments. She jerked in his arms. His fingers moved again, touching, melding, melting -

The insistent rhythm had her gasping against him. She could not speak. Could not _think -_

Was she really doing this? She had never… not with _anyone… _She silently swore to herself that she could face the consequences tomorrow, so long as he did not stop... did not…

oh God -

A mane of gold-streaked hair swung down as her head fell forward against his shoulder, her face pressed against the hard, sweat-soaked muscle. She bit down, hard, and heard a savage cry, but did not know who from, there was nothing but this decadent, raw _wanting - _

He was pulling the gartered silk stockings down her legs, as she kissed the coppery skin, hungry, frantic, urgent. Her need was unbearable. Her hands fisted in the rough-worn fabric of his trousers as she scrabbled with the fastenings, aware of his harsh breathing, his damp head buried in the curve of her neck as he kissed and nipped his way down the inflamed skin until she was incoherent with wanting. And - at last - the heat of his bare thighs - her eyes closed -

Raoul pulling at her dress with desperate hands -

She pulled the flimsy garment over her head and flung it somewhere, anywhere, not caring, aware only of the intensity of his gaze as his eyes drank her in, her thin chemise near-transparent, concealing nothing. She felt the release of breath hot against the hollow of her throat. He tugged her undergarments aside, fingers splayed across her inner thighs.

He looked at her. She held her breath.

A ravaging kiss -

The warm slide of hands -

Then one swift, dominating _thrust._

She cried out as the drums beat in the hot night and the candle went out with a hiss, obliterating the last flickering light and plunging the room into complete darkness.


	27. Passion and Penitence

**The Mask and Mirror**

_Watching your eyes  
As they invade my soul  
Forbidden pleasures  
I'm afraid to make mine_

_At the touch of your hand  
At the sound of your voice  
At the moment your eyes meet mine  
I am out of my mind  
I am out of control  
Full of feelings I can't define._

(Dangerous Game, Jekyll and Hyde)

_Am I too lost to be saved?  
__Am I too lost?_

(Tourniquet, Evanescence)

Chapter 27

Christine awoke the next morning in her own bed. Then immediately wished she had remained unconscious.

The glare of morning sunlight fell directly across the bed and hit her aching eyes with brutal intensity. Her entire body felt as though it had been turned inside out. There was a tight knot of nausea in the pit of her stomach and a bitter, acrid taste in her mouth. She stared blankly at the tangled bed sheets with heavy-lidded eyes. When had she gone to bed? _How _had she gotten to bed? The whole evening was a vague blur of incoherent images and sensations. She couldn't even remember what they had talked about.

She did remember having some rather wild dreams, however.

Christine groaned, placing a hot hand on her aching brow. Her head was pounding with a dull, throbbing pain. Through the dim, murky haze of her thoughts, one prevailing idea emerged. Get to Erik. Surely he would be able to administer some remedy. Humiliating as it was to face him in such a state _(_and_ why _could she not remember the night more clearly?) it wouldn't be as humiliating as throwing up in the room he had so thoughtfully furnished for her. His room was only down the hall. She could manage that. Small steps. Just lift the head, raise the body -

_Oh -_

Her stomach roiled in protest. She buried her head between her knees, not moving until she was certain the lurching sickness had subsided. Inch by slow inch, she managed to heave herself from the cloying tangle of sheets and placed her unsteady feet on the blissfully cool stone.

She immediately noticed that someone - _me, I hope_ - had removed her outer corset, as she was dressed only her undershift. The dress she had worn last night lay discarded on the floor as though someone (again, she hoped it was her) had flung it there. The delicate material was coiled in a tangle of dark silk that would crease unless hung up, but she could not summon the energy to do it. She did, however, have the presence of mind to drape a light robe around herself before venturing outside.

She near-staggered down the corridor, every movement causing a wave of sickness to overcome her. It was cooler here, at least, the dimness a blessed relief to her intense headache. The sun's merciless heat did not penetrate here, and she clung to the wall, taking quick, shallow breaths through her mouth. The smell of dust with a tinge of incense, that constant desert aridity, went some way to abating the immediate urge of her body to rid itself of the previous evening's excesses. Erik's room was visible now, and Christine dragged herself the remaining distance. Bracing herself, she knocked once. Twice.

There was no answer.

Her fingers curled around the ornate bronze handle. Tentatively, she pushed open the door.

It was the first time she had ever seen him asleep. One of his arms was flung wide, the fingers closed in a subliminal defensive gesture. He was lying on his side, the scarred part of his face pressed into the pillow out of her sight. Even in slumber, there was something powerful and fearful about him, a kind of animalism. Her eyes traced the wide forehead, the strong nose, the sensual mouth, its cruel lines softened slightly in repose. Heavy lashes brushed his cheeks that were several shades darker from the heat of a foreign sun. The tossed black hair was rayed across the pillow carelessly. His arm traversed the width of the bed, she could see the plane of muscles in his shoulder, the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed. There was something both magnificent and repellent in the image. She had always known he was a powerfully built man, and his being at ease by no means diminished that effect. She thought of the annihilating power of those muscles and shivered. Did it frighten her? His strength? In such an amoral man it was a dangerous combination. It should frighten her. Yet she did not move away.

Even now it struck her as odd that someone so elusive and mysterious as Erik could do something so ordinary as _sleep, _and there was something rather intriguing in being able to watch him with his being entirely unaware of it. How strange it was to see him devoid of all his finely cut clothing, whether it be silk or leather or velvet, each garment allowing him to play the part of the aristocratic gentleman, even if in reality he was something very different. Without those pieces of finery, he was something else entirely. Now he was suddenly very real, very physical. Very much a man. The sight of him reminded her of a proverb she had once heard about sleeping lions, although the exact wording of it escaped her.

But she was fairly certain it was something about not waking them.

She could easily back away and leave the room with him being none the wiser. Not only was her being here so, so… _inappropriate_, the prospect of actually going to his bed and physically waking him was not something she was entirely sure she wanted to do. To lay her hands on the bronzed expanse of his bare skin, to touch the hardened muscle and feel it tense beneath her tentative hands… no, the very idea was unthinkable! She could not possibly awaken this dark man who was wrapped in nothing but a thin sheet under which he might not be wearing anything at all… heat flooded her face at the thought.

Erik gave a muttered groan and moved slightly, causing Christine to back away in alarm. Nausea roared through her stomach at the movement. That settled the decision for her. She could bear his taunts and disgust and condescension if it meant no longer feeling like this. She crept forward again. Closer.

"Erik." Her voice came out a hoarse groan. The back of her throat felt like it had been scratched with sandpaper. _Never in my life will I drink again..._ "Erik."

Memory stirred in the back of her mind, vague and fleeting, of candlelight and a tight hold on her shoulders, and… but it was gone. She reached out an unsteady hand (_just an inch closer_) -

He turned over and Christine swallowed down a gasp.

The entire stretch of his back was a riddled mess of scars. She put a hand to her mouth, all thoughts of her own discomfort chased from her mind. _My God…_

In some ways, it was worse than his facial disfigurement. Terrible as his face was, it was at least something he had been born with, it was something beyond his control. But those white-hot lashes of the whip that had left such brutal scars had been _done _to him. Again… and again… and again. She shouldn't have been surprised. She knew his history. But knowing and _seeing _were two very different things, and this was… unbearable. How could any human being show such cruelty to a fellow man? Her eyes stung with tears. The knowledge of his past was a constant wound in her heart. No man should have to undergo such torture. She sometimes wondered how he even managed to get through each day with the memory of it haunting him. Had he succeeded in suppressing it, she wondered, burying it so deeply he no longer gave it any thought in his waking hours?

No. She saw the defiant bitterness and raw emotion too often in his eyes to be convinced he was as indifferent as he would have her believe. She had to do something_. _She wanted to run her hands across the inflamed skin to soothe the hurt, she wanted to press her lips against it to counter the cruelty done to him… she wanted…

She should leave.

Instead, Christine leaned over closer still, her faint exhalation of breath ruffling the ebony hair. _I have to help him. I _must _help him. Not because of guilt, or duty, but because in my heart, I truly want to. _She was trembling as her outstretched hand hovered over his bare skin, near enough to feel the warmth emanating from his body, and she stared half-fascinated at the trickling distortion of red and white scar tissue that endlessly crossed over itself, the occasional flashes of unbroken skin showing itself that made the mutilations all the worse by sheer contrast. Were it not for those brutal lacerations, his body would have been _perfect; _masculine and magnificent, so vital with its sheer force of energy and life. Like his face that could so easily have been strong and beautiful, that potential had been snatched away, trampled upon, destroyed. Her heart broke at the sheer injustice of it and she longed to communicate those feelings somehow… _No. He hates pity. You of all people know that._

"Christine?"

She gave a soft exclamation in surprise. He was awake. His face was still averted but he was watching her suspiciously from the corner of his eye.

She was bent over him like some administering angel, dark curls tumbling down to kiss his neck and bare shoulders. Erik closed his eyes, hard, then opened them again. No, she wasn't a dream. Still staring at her uncomprehendingly, his hand crept outwards, groping for the mask on his bedside table. It was only when his fingers had closed around it and pressed it securely onto his face did he raise his upper body and turn to look at her fully.

She had retreated slightly, an anxious expression hovering on her face that was several shades paler than usual, almost pallid in the unmerciful morning light. _Ah. _She was starting to feel the repercussions of last night, then. "I'm sorry for disturbing you…" she mumbled, looking as though she wished she were anywhere else.

Erik's mouth curved into a smile that could only be described as satanic. "And how are you this morning?"

There was no use in lying. The knowing look in his eyes would never have believed a show of bravado. "I feel awful," she admitted. "I was wondering if you perhaps had something that might help -"

"Give me a moment," he muttered, his normally melodic voice still heavy with sleep.

Christine quickly averted her eyes as he heaved himself from the bed and made his way over to the panelled wardrobe, pulling out a Persian robe that he threw loosely over his broad shoulders. She winced. That headache was prodding at her temples again with sharp, probing fingers. She jumped as she felt Erik's hand come to rest on her arm, but did not pull away.

"Come outside, sit somewhere in the shade."

She backed up immediately. The thought of going out into the glaring sun was more than her headache could tolerate.

"Maybe I should go back to bed," she began hopefully. She turned to go, but the grip on her arms was merciless.

"The fresh air will do you good."

She groaned. "You are ruthless."

"You knew that already," he pointed out. But there was the hint of a smile in his voice.

The sun was slowly dragging itself towards the most ferocious time of day. When they stepped outside, the blistering atmosphere caused waves of heat to break over her skin. The villa garden had a scorched, unyielding appearance. The azure sky was the only colour against the scrubbed pale saffron grasses and the whiteness of the walls. The path leading from the villa ran like a track of beaten gold, dusty and glittering in the hard light. The heat of it was burning through her fine-soled slippers. She could smell the burning dryness of desert sand.

Erik's hand, warm and steady under her arm, guided her over to one of the high-built walls that threw a relief of shade across the ground. Against the wall was a gilt-framed seat. Christine sank bonelessly into it, moaning slightly as she let her head fall back against the coolness of the stone wall, indifferent to its rough, abrading surface or the particles of white dust that settled in her hair. Lethargy coursed through her relaxed limbs as her pliant body moulded itself against the metallic-framed seat. The shade was like a cool whisper against her heated skin, the material of her robe light as gauze in a slight breeze that was sheer bliss in the parching stillness. She closed her eyes, willing the pounding in her head to subside. Perhaps if she allowed herself to gradually drowse into that somnolent state the heat so easily induced, she might fall asleep again…

Erik looked sidelong at her. Even though she was evidently feeling the effects of the preceding evening, he could not help but think her figure looked like a slender white flower, despite lacking its usual unconscious grace. With an effort, he forced down the memory of the previous night, the voracious passion of which he could not shake himself free. It would help if he were not so _hot_. The sweat was already pouring in rivulets down his back. He wiped his dust-covered hands on his trousers. The skin had tanned, becoming almost as dark as Nadir's… but he swallowed hard. He would not think about Nadir. That old betrayal still hurt.

"How are you feeling?" he asked Christine stiffly.

"It's less stifling here," she breathed in response. She leaned forward, pale fingers massaging her temples. "My head does not ache so much."

She passed a slender hand through her mass of unruly curls, throwing the hair back over her shoulders with a soft sound of annoyance. Erik could see the fine bones of her shoulders through the flimsy robe she had pulled around herself. He tried very hard not to think of how he managed to remove her corset from her delicate frame the preceding evening. He had been fearful of the constricting effect it might have on her unconscious body, and she was clearly in no state to take off the restricting garment herself. But _God, _to have her yielding before him in blissful ignorance as he unhooked the clasps, feeling the silk and heat of her body beneath, the fascinating contrast of dark material shifting like cool water over her flawless white skin, the creased folds settling in the valley between her breasts, the curves of her waist, dipping between her legs. He had finally resorted to averting his eyes, but even without seeing, he could still _feel, _and his hands were acutely aware of her soft breathing in the rise and fall of her chest, the moulded contours of her figure tantalising in the sinfully fine chemise. The second he had placed her gently in bed, he had fled the room and spent a tortured night in his own bed, wracked in agony. He could not help but feel a grim kind of satisfaction that she was experiencing some discomfort now, even if it was of a different sort.

Christine hesitated, fumbled for the right words. "Yesterday evening…" she frowned and tried again. "I mean, I know we were talking…" the faint line between her dark brows deepened, "And drinking…"

He said nothing. Clearly he was not going to make this any easier for her. Christine hesitantly raised her eyes to his unreadable profile. His shirt hung half-open, she could see the tightly curled black hair on his chest. There was a sheen of sweat across his brow above the line of his mask, dark hair moist against the skin. The confession burst from her in a rush.

"I can't even remember what happened."

_Then you are fortunate, because I am driven mad by it. Would you like me to enlighten you? _For a moment, Erik was tempted to do just that. But, he reflected bitterly, she would either disbelieve him outright, or laugh, which was a hundred times worse. "You drank too much," he said abruptly. "And fell asleep. I carried you to your room." _And removed your corset._

"Oh," she said, twisting her hands in her lap. His coldness stung her. She must have embarrassed herself more than she realised. Hot colour flared in her cheeks, and she wasn't even sure why she was blushing. "I'm so sorry –"

"Don't apologise. It was my fault entirely. The wine is very strong and if you are not used to it… it was thoughtless of me not to have considered it."

"You must think me such a fool," she whispered.

"Not at all. Just someone with a very low tolerance of alcohol."

His tone was still curt, but Christine thought she could discern a glimmer of humour in the deep lines around his mouth. She smiled faintly but the sense of unease persisted. She couldn't help it; she had to _ask – _

"Erik… did I say… or do… anything last night?"

He turned to look at her. The unmasked half of his face was blandly inscrutable. "Like what?"

"It doesn't matter," she said hastily.

* * *

Christine stared at reflection in the mirror. The crimson dress – the hue of pressed rose petals, a deep, dark red – glowed against her pale skin. The silken fabric was lighter than anything she had worn in Paris, the gossamer-thin folds of material whispering against her legs when she moved. Silken undersleeves glided along her arms with the lingering caress of a lover's touch. The bodice scooped down from her shoulders in a wide neckline, exposing her collarbone that seemed startling white and vulnerable with the shadows gathered around her. Dark hair, brushed to shining ripples, coiled over her shoulders in heavy waves, the same deep brown as her eyes (all traces of this morning's sickness gone, thank goodness).

Raoul would have smiled, his clear, brilliant blue eyes alight with admiration as he said she looked beautiful. Perhaps she did. But then why did such a cold trickle of unease run through her veins? She had worn many exquisite gowns during the course of her engagement, gowns that were intricately stitched and embroidered and woven with fine threads of graduating shades and intensities. There was no such subtlety facing her now. The stark colours of black, white and red gave her appearance an oddly fairy tale aspect; not the happily ever after fairy tale she had thought to find with Raoul, but the distinctly Grimm kind of story, the stories where a woman served up her stepson in a stew or where a queen danced to death in a burning pair of shoes.

Did everything that came from Erik carry an element of danger?

And why did she seem so _drawn _to it?

With a sigh, Christine turned away from her reflection, narrowed eyes falling on the darkness outside her window. Nights came quickly in this country, plunging the sky into almost immediate blackness as dry, wind-swept cold rushed across sands faded white beneath the moon. She could see grey dunes rising in the distance, the sparse vegetation the only signs of life discernable in the landscape stretching endlessly toward the horizon. A cool breeze stirred the grasses slightly, the blades swaying with the long-familiar rhythm. Her breath caught at the aching beauty of it, the loneliness. She wondered how many people had viewed this scene before her, or whether her eyes were the first to witness it. She could almost feel the earth turning beneath her feet, the aligning of the stars in the clear sky, the ancient ground holding memories of the past and whispering of what was yet to come. All of it centred on this remote, forgotten piece of land somewhere on the skin of the earth. For the first time, she could understand what had drawn Erik here. It was a place to be found and lost, to cast off old identities and to create new ones. To leave behind everything that mattered to find something that _mattered._

And she had. It had brought her back to his music. This was the time of day she lived for, those hours spent beside him as he played, when they could forget everything, the past, the bitterness and think only of the beauty. Smiling slightly, she left the room.

She walked slowly along the hall, the silken underskirts rustling with each movement. The corridor was lit with dim lamps, giving off golden hues that softened the stone walls and polished flooring. It cast a curious spell of nostalgia over her. Surely this could not be Algeria? This was no longer the whitewashed villa that sat in the heat of a scorching foreign sun, but Paris once more; the Opera house with its setting of opulence and splendour and sensuality. Christine paused. She could distinctly hear music coming from one of the rooms further ahead, the sound of it like a call out of the earth. Trailing a hand along the cool stone wall, she made her way further along as the melody became steadily clearer. In the time she had spent with him, she had learned to read Erik's emotions through his music, understanding that it was the expression of his voice, his _true _voice. She knew when he was feeling pain, bitterness, anger. But this was something else entirely. Not as slow or measured as _Don Juan, _but faster, with a frenetic, quick paced rhythm. But it held the same notes of dark suggestion. A drumming, pulsing movement that went right to the tips of her fingers.

As she opened the door, she was overwhelmed by the scents and images. The warm glow of firelight, long shadows dancing across the stone-flagged floor. Rich, wine coloured velvet and brocade. And there. Erik.

In the deceptive play of nocturnal shadows, his powerful figure seemed larger than ever as he sat at the instrument. She could see nothing but his broad, square shoulders and that wild mane of ebony hair, no longer oiled and coiffed as it had been in Paris, but loose and wild.

Her slippered feet scuffed the stone as she halted uncertainly. She did not wish to disturb him when he was so immersed, even though he was expecting her. And his music was always so captivating to the listener, once begun, she could only listen, and listen, and listen, to savour each note whether it be of exquisite ecstasy or the deepest anguish, have all her senses drown in the plush rhythms and plunging cadences, each sensation so amplified and perfectly captured that she could not help but respond, her body instinctively seeking to move in harmony with those fluid tides, to dance -

She hadn't danced, not really _danced _since her days at the Opera. The formal balls she attended since with Raoul hardly counted. They were stiff affairs, respectful and proper. No spontaneity, no life to them. Always conscious of being labelled as merely an actress by the upper echelons of Parisian society, she would attend these events, trying to maintain impeachable propriety, her moves stilted and awkward, trying at all costs to suppress the shivers that passed through her as Raoul's hands caught at her waist, fingers entwining languidly with hers. Trying to still the rapid pace of her heart as she moved into the warmth of his familiar embrace. But even those tunes had been familiar and routine, traditional and mundane. This was something else. _Oh, _it was passion and danger and menace and dash and fire all at once. She remained silent, entranced by the hypnotic rhythm.

This was not the Music of the Spheres, but of the body, of skin and heart and burning blood, and of dizzying sensuality. It was music that unwrapped the darkest secrets of the flesh, exposed the night and all its hidden pleasures. Passion vibrated in every exquisite note.

And Christine closed her eyes, the firelight flickering in bright patterns behind her closed lids, and did not see, but remembered from so long ago –

…_Erik pulling her towards the line of his body in one aggressive movement, the suddenness of it causing her to fall against him. The violin pitch throbbed to aching intensity as she leaned into the circle of his arms, half turning her head to feel the roughness of his skin against her cheek and its acute friction – _

The exquisite, languid notes continued to play softly, the beat escalating like darkly rippling shadows –

_The silken material against her back contrasting with the searing heat and hardness of his chest. She felt the ragged rise of fall of his breathing, and her blood caught fire when his hands stroked her possessively, sliding from the curves of her lithe waist to graze the gauzy fabric covering her breasts – _

Fevered as a rapidly beating heart, beautiful as dancing flames, flesh to flesh, passion to passion –

_The pressure of his arm around her forced her closer still until she was leaning on him with her full weight. Warm hands sliding along her neck, the pulse jumping in response under his wonderfully gifted fingers that could bring tune to any instrument._ _Her shoulders dropped as he arched her body backward in a dance of ancient passion. She felt his mouth brush the line of her bared throat, haggard breaths stirring the tiny hairs there as his lips hovered an inch from her bare skin. Silk and leather, flesh and fire – _

"Christine."

Her eyes snapped open. The strains of his serenade still smouldered around them. That music that pushed and pulled at her and made her burn. He cast a long shadow in the dim light. "I didn't hear you come in."

She knew Erik had ears like a cat, but did not question the lie. Clearly, he had been watching her. The half-length mask caused sensual shadows to play within the hard lines and fluid contours of his lower face. It was only his eyes she could see with any definition, clear as slick glass and just as dangerously sharp in their edges. She watched the firelight fringe his black hair with a halo of auburn.

He gestured languidly with a large hand. A pair of black gloves had been discarded on top of the instrument, coiled like sleek, leather serpents. "Come closer."

"I am quite happy just listening," she said, a little primly.

"You're not afraid, are you?"

Oh, not that look. Please not that look. "I don't know the words," she said, backing up slightly.

"You would not. This is one of my own compositions." That voice. Rich, intoxicating allure and seductive darkness. She drank it in, like sweet wine, relishing the dregs.

"From _Don Juan_?" Even the name caused colour to flame in her cheeks.

His full mouth curved, cruel and malicious it looked in the shadows. "No. But something a little like."

Once again she cursed that voice and the effect it seemed to have over her. His soul, she reminded herself, shivering slightly. She was here to save his soul. Never had it seemed a more hopeless endeavour than now, when he appeared more devil than man. And how could she hope to remember, in the heart of such darkness?

"I was hoping we might do something religious," she said quickly.

Religious? Oh, he was not in the mood for religion. Penitential evensong had no place tonight, not when his soul burned with such unholy fire. No, it was darkness and ardour that possessed him, crimson passion dancing beneath the skin, moving with the surging tides. His lips would form no harmonious melodies on this night, borne from an Elysian lyre. Yes, it was red that drowned his mind. His beating blood, red wine, red masks, red roses, and always, desire.

Erik devoured her with his eyes. She looked both like and unlike herself. Nothing about her called to mind a prima donna of the kind the Opera Populaire had thrived upon, those women of the black sequinned gowns and glittering jewels and figures like broughams. No, she looked like a solitary maiden come to seek a lover of the night, (_a woman wailing for her demon lover_) a virginal victim ripe for the role of an Operatic tragedy. Oh yes, she had certainly blossomed like a night flower under his tutelage.

"I thought perhaps something a little more… challenging?"

Her dark lashes swept down, brushing her cheeks as she eluded his intense look. "What did you have in mind?"

He turned idly to the instrument, long fingers flicking through the faded pages with a show of nonchalance that belied the fact he knew _exactly _what he was looking for. "What about the Habanera from _Carmen?_"

Christine swallowed hard. "If you like."

Yes, she would sing, if only to extinguish the intense atmosphere of the room, the sense of mute, dark fire hovering around them. She was acutely aware that he felt it too, the burning glances he kept casting her way made her shiver with both desire and unnameable fear. She could feel the pulse beating in her wrists.

_All around you, swift, so swift,  
It comes, it goes, and then returns  
You think you hold it fast, it flees  
You think you're free, it holds you fast..._

Oh, how he had missed her voice, he realised as he cast surreptitious, searing glances at her pale profile, startling against the line of red silk that clung to her slender frame. The movement of her mouth, her lips, was entrancing. Yes, she certainly made an intoxicating Carmen, graceful and sensual, her skin flushed and heightened against crimson silk, dark curls dancing around her face. Ravishing, in fact. He wondered that he had never considered her for the part before… Passion surged like a flame through his blood. Erik swallowed hard and drew his gaze back to the score sheet, although he could have played the piece blindfolded...

_Love is a gypsy's child,  
__It has never, ever, recognized the law;  
__If you love me not, then I love you;  
__If I love you, you'd best beware_

She was uneasy about the choice of song. The music, the setting had all transported her to another world: a dangerous world of obsession and seduction and adultery. She could not help but think of the opera of Carmen, whose flirtations with two men had destroyed herself and the men who loved her. Even the scorching, dusty land outside bore an unnerving similarity to that final, fatal scene of Jose's wrath.

She could not help but wonder if Erik had picked the song for this very reason.

The room blurred before her, a series of images passing before her gaze; the swaying, hypnotizing movement of the fire, roses, mahogany, Erik's dark figure. Her eyes fell on his broad, heavy shoulders, the movement of his arms as he played, a deadly combination of power and grace and destruction. She saw, too, the pulse beating rapidly in his throat, the hairs on his chest where his shirt was partially opened and could imagine her hands tracing the hard planes of his strained muscles as he pressed her body against his –

Her voice strained and faltered. She attempted to continue, but Erik noticed at once, his gaze flying up from the keys to bore into her face. Their eyes caught and held.

"What's wrong?" she stammered.

He sat back on his stool, the leather creaking slightly as he watched her carefully through half-lidded eyes. "Your posture, for a start. I'm surprised you can do anything hunched over like that."

Christine gave a tiny, involuntary start when stood up from the instrument, walking over to her with all the lazy grace of a predatory cat. She could only stare, rooted to the spot as he came closer. _This is unwise… _but caution and restraint seemed distant words, buried somewhere far, far away. His leather boots made no sound on the polished wood floor. Now he had stopped playing, the silence was deafening. Every nerve in her body seemed to strain to breaking point when he came to stand behind her. It took all her self-will not to move away, or to turn and face him and –

"You need to be straight, shoulders back…" His tones were deep, full-throated and warm.

His fingers lightly brushed against the soft, exposed skin of her back. Sensation exploded in the pit of her stomach, spiralling outward to her very fingertips. The heat of his touch was like that which welds liquid metal. His hands went to the small of her back, burning through the silk of her gown, then slid upwards towards the wings of her shoulder blades, warm, strong hands. His breath was hot against her bare shoulder.

Again that dark fire that throbbed and pulsed around them. There was no sound between them save his heavy breathing. The sensual aroma of roses was mingled with the heady, obscure scents of leather and wine, and something else indefinable, something close and heavy from the hard male body hovering behind her… Christine's senses spun. Fingers so _close _to sliding beneath the delicately thin layers of clothing. Ripples of desire shivered down her spine. Luring her to submission. Temptation stalked around them, so thick she could taste it at the back of her throat. She shifted in agitation. Her corset was far, _far _too tight; she could not breathe…

_What are we doing? _she thought wildly. _Am I trying to save him, or is he trying to seduce me?_

Her skin was smooth beneath his fingers, as smooth as in his dreams. Erik swallowed hard and willed himself to focus on her posture rather than anything else. It was a futile endeavour. The fine lace clung damply to her skin that was flushed from the humidity. He felt her shudder against him and wondered whether it would ever be possible for him to touch her without her flinching away. But the _scent _of her… the sweetest perfume he had ever known, more enticing by far than the distant, exotic aromas of Persia that hung in the haze of rich air drenched with incense. He clenched his jaw, forcing down the impulse to taste her skin. She was so soft, so yielding… He wanted her to feel the fire raging beneath his skin. He wanted her open and burning for him. He wanted, wanted, _wanted_ -

Nothing but the firelight pulsating, with his heart, with his blood. Her chest was rising and falling with each unsteady breath and his eyes were fixed on the rounded contours visible above the line of her corset, the play of gold and shadows across her smooth white skin…so utterly _perfect_… God help him…

He had to possess her.

To have her laid out naked and willing beneath him… right… now.

_Enough waiting, _he thought grimly. _We finish this tonight._

She felt the warm fingers curled around her shoulders tighten suddenly. He abruptly turned her to face him. Beneath the impenetrable blackness of that mask, his brilliant eyes never left hers: the passion within them was visible as a dark flame.

"Christine…" His voice was deep and rich.

His fingers traced a slow, searing line across her shoulders. The torturous, silken movement caused the ragged breath to die in her throat. His heart was pounding hard against her chest.

Her gaze fell on the full, sensual mouth inches from her own. She was overcome by a wave of longing, of yearning. Heat pooled within her, cloying, liquid, pleasant. Her entire body was melting. Everything in her ached to surrender. The warmth of his breath grazed her parted lips. His head lowered a fraction -

"Erik -"

No more words. He silenced her tremulous protestation with his mouth.

_Raoul, _she thought weakly, fleetingly, but the memory was like trying to grasp mist in her bare hands. Nothing but hot skin, silken fabric and the fervent, desperate movement of Erik's mouth on hers, all the more tantalising for its rough, unpractised hunger, the love he had been starved of for so long. It was more like a ravishment than a kiss, a fierce, annihilating rape of the senses, as though he thought that by enough force he could fuse their two beings together and exorcise all the years of heartache and betrayal between them, burn it away to ashes. There was none of the tremulous uncertainty, that almost childlike tentativeness in the cellars of the Opera House where she had kissed him for the first time in candlelight and water. She could feel the shuddering force in his large hands that slid from her shoulders to the small of her back, pushing her harder against him. She could not breathe at the closeness of him, the heavy scents of leather and incense clouding her mind, the taste of his wine-dashed lips rendering her delirious on sensation. Her breasts were pressed against his violently heaving chest, the warmth of his thighs hard against her own and a wave of consuming heat ran through her, blood burning, her body transcending to spirit and fire.

For a moment, Erik was merely stunned at his own daring, with barely enough reason left in his inflamed mind to wonder whether he had just undone all the painstaking progress they had made over the last few months, but God Almighty, he didn't care anymore. Never had he been so utterly, gloriously lost. And it was such a relief; no longer denying what could not be denied, no longer fighting what could not be fought. The last time, it had been her kissing him, feeling his tears mingling with hers, hands tenderly caressing the scarred flesh and entwining in his hair. But now his mouth hungrily sought the inviting softness of her pliant, open lips, those lips he had tasted a hundred thousand nights in his dreams, but this was reality… oh, no dream this, the dark locks of her magnificent hair tumbling down in sensual disarray, caressing his throat in light, tantalising movements. This was real. He dragged his seeking fingers across every inch of her exposed flesh, burning satin twisted in sweat-slicked knots, a barely-there impediment to the naked skin beneath. Her delicate white fingers were digging into the muscle of his shoulders and he groaned deeply into her mouth. His heart was beating painfully as tears gathered in the corners of his eyes. God, if she pushed him away now, he would surely die…

Christine could feel the pulse throbbing in the burning fingers that traced letters of fire across the bare skin of her neck and shoulders, the sensitised flesh crying out for more of his touch. Her slender body encircled by iron-strong arms, leather-clad legs capturing her in rapturous imprisonment. Then his tongue had pushed past her parted lips, and she shuddered at the decadent pleasure of it, oh madness, but _how_ could she think when her body was shaking at his ardent caresses, the taste of salt tears in the mouth that trembled on hers, her body consumed by the fevered heat of his own _(Don Juan, triumphant at last) _-

Her hips were pressed against his groin and when she felt the hardness of his arousal, liquid fire pulsed in her core and she gave a muffled cry. An urgent, palpitating rhythm as he moved instinctively against her _(stop - don't stop - _please _don't stop)_ his tongue in hot, dancing tandem with hers, because, God help her, she was kissing him back, clutching handfuls of his coarse dark hair, needing him, needing more of him, her shuddering fingers pressing against black fabric of his mask -

His _mask -_

Erik's mask.

Erik. This was Erik.

Her fogged mind caught hold of that thought until it crystallised into ice-sharp, splintering _realisation _that shattered through her spine_ - what have I done - _paralysing force_, _the muscled arms around her body that still shuddered with the trammels of burning currents, his mouth now tenderly assaulting the sensitive skin at her arched throat, the knowledge that this was absolute, irrevocable, terrible _betrayal _even as his scorching fingers tugged aside the translucent material at her shoulder, baring the willing flesh to his searing gaze… It was an unforgivable sin and absolute _insanity _- _God - _he moved against her again, this time agonisingly slow… _savour each sensation… _

_No -_

_Withdraw – now!_

Reason, at last.

She pulled back at once, hearing his grunt of surprise as her fevered body strained away from him with equal parts desire and crippling shame.

_Oh, God – I didn't – I _did _– and it's wrong, wrong – _

Christine felt his entire body go rigid. She almost had to grasp at the parted material of his satin shirt to keep from falling, but that would lead her to do something that would make them both very, very sorry. She slid her sweating fingers together, knotting in tension. His square jaw was set forward with a grim intensity and a stubborn self-control that was all too close to breaking. But it was the expression in his eyes that struck her. He looked like he was going to throw her to the floor and take her, consequences be damned. And the worst of it that she was unsure if she would resist.

She took a shaking step back. Again (_just one more, one more…)_

"Christine." His voice was a feral growl, barely recognisable. It made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up.

_I can't… I can't… _Christine realised she was trembling all over. He took a looming step towards her. He was so large, so dark, blocking out the world… Instinct took over. She turned and fled.

Out the door, her slippered feet slapping against the stone, for she was running now (oh, _why_ was her room so far away?), the house seeming to have turned into a realm of narrow labyrinthine passages with all paths leading back to him like the Minotaur in the maze, but no, no… heat clinging to her, the skirts tangled around her legs and what if he was following? The thought of his dark figure pursuing her with swift strides, dragging her back to him, caused her heart to catch in her throat, keep moving, keep moving… her breaths coming fast and short, her lips still burning from his searing kiss, but don't think about that -

Her door. At last. With a choked gasp, Christine pulled it open and stumbled inside, making certain to pull the bolt across before sinking to the floor in a tangle of silk and sweating hands, fingers pulling and twisting at the sheer material that had turned translucent with perspiration. Her face was flushed - no, her entire body was flushed. There was an acute, pulsing ache between her legs. She kicked off her satin slippers and drew her knees up to her chest, shivering.

_What is happening to me?_

She pushed away the dark curls of hair that were clinging to her fevered skin, dancing along her back, sweeping her bare shoulders that still burned from _his _touch. Her heart was pounding thickly in her head. She could not breathe. _Why is it so hot? _The heat was cloying, suffocating her. His overpowering scent still lingered in her clothing, heavy, masculine. She could almost imagine it hovering over her body, like his hands. And she had felt the strength contained in those velvet hands, so sensitive, so powerful. Heat flooded through her at the memory, not just of now, but all those times of contact that had been at first a slow and sensual caress, gloved fingers lingering tauntingly in those chaste places, the leathery warmth teasing her hips, the exposed flesh above her bodice... Then she remembered his brutal hold, the places where he had left bruises on her skin when she had dared to defy him and love another… All the old memories pressed down on her with a terrible, constricting weight; the fire, the deaths, the threats, the lies, that she had forgotten for so long -

_Your chains are still mine. You belong to me._

Fury. Madness. Destruction. Oh, how terrifying he had looked, eyes like burning coals behind the mask. His dark past haunting their every encounter. Why had she not run sooner? Why had she allowed him to…? What if even now he was outside her door, silent and smouldering, pressing his hands against the wood, picturing her within?

She shuddered at that decadent and destructive sensuality. Yet something dark and primitive inside her had gloried at the feel of his strong arms around her, his hot breath on her lips. Possessing her heart and soul. Emotion washed over her: frightening, inexorable, unsettling. She could abandon all restraint. It was the nameless dread that had been hovering over her ever since _Don Juan_, this tantalising, sinful, dangerous lust. Christine wrapped her arms around her thin body, unable to shake off the sensation of his hands, hard and hot, against her bare skin. Had she wanted, those hands could have touched every inch of her body, unlocking that sweet, pooling tension that had left her skin flushed and fevered. She didn't know what to do.

By now, she should have been married, a wife. She _loved _Raoul (oh so very much). She thought of his beloved face, the deep blue eyes, the ardent smile. The drowning coolness of his kisses, his tender embraces enfolding her like the sea. It had seemed so perfect; the surge of desire with the faintest undercurrent of yearning and ethereal pain. But Paris was a thousand miles away and an eternity ago. She had thought with Raoul she had learnt the meaning of passion, but what if she had only touched the surface? The unplumbed depths loomed before her, a descent of jagged edges and darkness inescapable. Even now, a part of her wanted to go back to the music room, to see what would happen _if_ -

No - no - Raoul, her sweet beloved, her dear one, her heart's darling, she would never, _never _betray him... _but you already have._

In rush of passion, her fevered fingers coiled in the gauzy whispers of her skirts, the hooks of her bodice, and she savagely tore the dress from her, leaving it to slither to the floor in a crumpled heap. In nothing but her shift, Christine remained seated on the cool stone floor, feeling the ice of its touch against her bare skin. She covered her face with her hands. The skin was still burning, branded, marked. This was wicked, wrong. She loved Raoul, always had (_always will)_. So how could this be happening to her again? Erik's presence had always affected her; she knew this. But this was unlike anything the darkest suppression of her consciousness could ever conceive.

_I thought I had forgotten it, _she thought with wretched desperation_. _Pushed it aside in the wake of the so much more important things that had happened. The man was doing everything to strive against his inner darkness - a consuming madness that he could tumble back into at any moment - he _needed _her to be strong for him, not being drawn back into the old passion and torment. She could not. She _believed _in Erik, had sworn to stand by him through anything, pressed her hands and lips to his penitent flesh and vowed she saw the goodness in him _(nothing in this life or the life hereafter will ever persuade me otherwise), _spoken the name of God and pledged herself to his salvation. Oh, how she had felt her very soul burn with righteous conviction! It had been so clear, it had been meant. She had been so willing. And now, after the mere press of his lips against hers -

She was so weak. So _damnably _weak.

Her fine-boned shoulders heaved with each unsteady breath. She succumbed to his body and wept for his soul. Nothing about him was tamed, nothing moderated. His mind was cloaked with the darkness of hell and his music touched the pinnacles of heaven. They had ascended high enough to ride the currents of infinite dreams and touch divine paradise through the aspiring chords of glorious music, and now she was falling, falling endlessly… His passion would consume her, burn her alive if she would let it. More than anything in this world, she wanted to see him redeemed, but at what cost to herself? Was this the cross she must bear?

It should not matter. She could not be selfish. Not in this.

_Erik, _she thought wildly, _how did you become such a part of me? No matter where I run, it's always you I find. My muse, my madness. I can never escape._

There was nowhere to run. Nothing outside her room but wilderness. Wilderness - and _him. _She would not abandon him, but how could she stay, after -

Why oh _why_ had Erik kissed her? Things had been going so well between them, and now… now he had ruined everything. They could never return to that comfortable state of - of almost _friendship _that had delighted and thrilled her soul. That precious bond had been shattered forever. Christine felt like crying.

She tried to search for devotional words, but prayer eluded her. _Father, I need you now like I have never needed you before. What do I do? What do I do?_

* * *

She had run.

Tempted him, melted in his arms, driven him to the delirious heights of bodily ecstasy, on the brink of utmost fulfilment… and she had run. Even now, he _repulsed _her.

Erik paced the spacious room furiously, his throbbing, unsated arousal allowing him no rest. His shoulders were heaving, each ragged breath merely fuelling his sense of furious aggravation, the stunned bewilderment that she had pushed him away… _(come now, are you really surprised?) _But how _could _she when it had been so perfect, so perfect…

Was she playing a game with him?

No. Her lips had opened beneath his, she had kissed him back, he _felt _it. Then he stopped short, awful hesitation freezing him to the spot, like ice crashing through his body. Had he? In her absence, he began to doubt himself. He had been so consumed by mad desire he could barely think. It wasn't as though she had the strength to fight him off; she might have been desperate to escape the entire time. She had certainly fled from him as though he were the devil himself the moment she broke free.

He dropped heavily into a chair, his mind burning with the agonised thoughts that assailed him. That kiss. The memory was already branded onto his soul. It had been endless falling and annihilation and resurrection, his heart feeling as though it would burst with emotion. He was still shaking at its after-affects, his body afire with more passion than he had ever imagined it could contain. It frightened him, this sheer overwhelming intensity of feeling that blazed through and through him, demanding that he go to her at once, because by God, he could not be satisfied with mere platonic sentiment. Not after that. He closed his eyes in silent agony. How glorious it had been to hold her slender, graceful body in his arms, it had been so complete, so _right. _Had it really meant nothing to her?

But if she _had _kissed him back, what did that mean? Erik did not for a moment believe that she was prompted by any real sense of love or affection for him. But what, then? She had denied him love for two years now, why had he thought this time would be any different?

After all, this was Christine, the eternal ingénue, the naïve and devout Christian. His forbidden, untouchable angel. Even watching her coupled in an embrace with the Vicomte had never occurred to him as especially sensual as the emotion behind it had always been so pure and innocent. Nothing like the desperate and primitive need that he thought he had glimpsed briefly in _Don Juan, _before dismissing it as a result of his own deluded longings. Yet a part of him had hungered for that sense of unrestrained passion he sensed buried beneath the layers of gentleness and decorum that others had imposed upon her. The thought of divesting her of those flimsy barriers of clothing, to have her cry out his name while frantic with need, and feel her trembling thighs slick with desire...

She had withdrawn from him, true, but he was far stronger and more powerful, he could have pulled her back to him in an instant and culminated this obsessive longing.

But he hadn't.

_Why?_

Had he not always taken what he wanted, regardless of the consequences or who might get hurt? Why should this be any different? What was to stop him storming to her room, taking her delicate body in his arms and finishing what had begun the moment she entered the music room?

Nothing. Nothing - and everything.

Erik's head sank into his hands as he sighed deeply. Now he felt only tired, so tired. Weary knowledge weighed him down as he realised, helplessly, what held him back. Had always held him back. It would not have been enough to merely fulfil the ravages of physical lust. Beautiful as she was, slender and pale and graceful as she was, he would have loved her without that. No, it was her soul he wanted – her elusive, pure and brilliant soul that shone like a white flame within her slight body – that was what he had sought after, hopelessly, all these years. The more he tried to hold onto her by force, the further this precious, ardent spirit eluded his grasp.

He had known that things could not have continued as they were. Tonight had proven that. It seemed that three choices lay before him. To take her by force, to let her go, or to become someone she genuinely _could _love. The first he would not do. The second he could not. _But then, that leaves… leaves only…_

At last, aching and exhausted, Erik fell into a fevered sleep. The crackle of the fire faded and he heard the blood beating thickly in his ears as his mind cast itself back, and he realised he had been here before, though never in his waking hours. He wandered in a dark and lonely place.

_The soles of his feet were torn and bleeding. A path of stones and thorns stretched before him endlessly. It always came back to this. He could walk no further. It was too much. He wanted it over. He had drank from the cup of life in all its bitterness and was sickened by its dregs. _

_Blood and darkness and corruption, such have I tasted. There is nothing to look forward to but death. No release but annihilation. Who will grant it to me?_

_O Jesu. Let me embrace the cross and bear its splinters for the world to see. Let me clasp the nails meant for Thy hands. Let me bear the stones and sufferings, for Thou hath nothing to repent, and I have all -_

"_You have nothing to repent, you should never be sorry…"_

_Christine. He looked down at her face, very pale, very anxious in the fading light and it struck him that he had seen that face before – the same, yet different – tear-blinded and stricken with grief. He watched as the wind caught her hair and something tightened painfully inside his chest. The hour drew near and the cross beckoned. An inner wound burned him. __Yet even now, he hesitated._

"_I'm not worthy."_

"_None of us are," she said._

_He was already too late. Divine blood flowed from the cross. He watched and did nothing to intervene. The derision and mockery was misplaced (they condemn the wrong man), yet he said nothing, and his silence was a thousand sins. Christine wept, her hair over her face. He could not bear it._

_He collapsed at the base of the cross. __He felt the pain as though it were his own; the ecstasy of agony, the pouring of blood into the open wound. He lifted his face in yearning. __An agonised, unspoken appeal. _

_Help me. Heal my wounds. Ease my suffering._

_A voice answered. Who are you, to bear the burdens of Christ?_

_He tried to speak, but could find no words. But she was standing before him, her face filled with emotion._

_He reached out entreatingly. "Christine… please…" _

_Gently but firmly, she put his hands away from her. And he saw she was crying, the tears running down her cheeks as she spoke softly, her shoulders shaking. "I tried, Erik. I tried so hard I thought my heart would break with sorrow, but it was all for nothing. I thought there was hope, that it was meant. But I was wrong. I was so very, very wrong. I came too late. You know what you are. What you will always be. And this is the last time, the last time I will see you, do you understand? Do you understand? This parting will be forever. I can never, never see you again."_

_No… His mind was reeling… this cannot be the end -_

_She turned away._

"_Goodbye, Erik," she said._

His eyes opened to see the world through an aching veil of weeping. _A dream. Or a memory. _

Erik sank to the floor. Half faint with delirium, he pressed his shaking hands against the fevered skin of his face, the hateful mask falling away, hitting the wood with a dull clatter. His fingertips traced it all from the bitterness of memory; the scars, the cruelties, the inhumane torments… _yet in the end, it is my soul that is the ugliest thing of all._

A sudden, bleak feeling of misery overcame him.

_You know what you are._

His heart thumped a dull, sickening rhythm. He was so lonely. He was dying of loneliness. Erik gasped an unsteady breath, feeling the final humiliation of tears running down his face. For the past, for himself, and most of all, for Christine and the love he realised he would never have. Had that kiss been the last, final torment? To give him a glimpse of heaven before snatching it from his tremulous grasp? Why, oh _why _could she not love him? Did he not deserve to loved, as other men?

_But you are not like other men._

He pulled himself upright, groped unsteadily for the mirror in his greatcoat pocket. He stared at his reflection blindly through water-veined eyes. The mirror trembled in his hand. He flung it from him in a passion of tears. _I thought she was different. That she would see past it. That if _anyone _could… it would be her._ But how _could _she see past such monstrosity? How could anyone? Distorted, deformed, his face twisted and scarred, a mark of Cain for all the worst things he had ever done. He _deserved _to be disfigured. He had tried, God knows he had tried in those early years to act with good intentions but his every endeavour was met with mockery and hatred.

The memories pierced him with tormenting intensity. He was enacting his own passion play, the trials, the suffering, but without the glory and release of death and redemption that would follow. He wished to atone and become sanctified… _but there can be no forgiveness for me. Unless - unless from her._

He saw her face so clearly, the trembling of unshed tears as she knelt penitently before him, her eyes shining with that clear transparency that was so unique to her. _I will never stop believing in you, Erik. Never._

Had she lied? For how was it that such a seemingly frail, delicate creature could burn with such spiritual passion?

No, she could not have lied. This was Christine. She wasn't just anyone. Her promises weren't anyone's promises. She had said she believed in him, and in her pure, truthful heart, those words were binding. She had sacrificed _everything _to be here, more perhaps than even she knew, and for that he could never doubt her.

But… _why? _What could possibly induce her to have such belief in him after he had lied and hurt and betrayed her times beyond count?

Perhaps it was just one of those things he would never know. All that mattered was that she believed in him. It was enough. Enough to add a soft grace note to his grief, make it a little bearable, but still there was something wanting; there would always be something wanting -

_I have knelt weeping at your feet. I resurrected you from the ashes when you were a grieving child and gave you music only the angels dreamed of. And it's not enough. It will never, never be enough. _

_Tell me what I must do!_

Had he not given her music once more? And this time, with no secrecy, no barriers of glass and lies casting a shadow between them? His vivid genius – so long neglected – had once again soared and flourished with her influence. She was the closest he could come to reconciling the transcendent, visionary plane his soul yearned for with the secular world he was forced to live in. Formerly, the retreat from the boundless, unchartered regions his music transported him to was an agony, the return of his grim and dark existence a blinding pain. And yet, to be beside Christine, to have her leaning over next to him, the peculiarly close stars visible through the narrow window and the night air of scented darkness surrounding them – he found this to be almost as much a heaven as the one his music had inspired.

Or so he had thought, foolishly. But without her love, his music faded to pale whispers and shadows in the empty caverns of his dying heart, an echo of eternal, unquenched yearning. He wanted to be annihilated through the ecstasy of song, to disappear from existence to nothingness. He thought of his instrument standing alone and his fingers played the ghosts of melodies, filled with unendurable pain. Perhaps, he reflected, he had been right to abandon the music in Paris. For what was music without a muse? What was a life without love? He had been conscious and breathed and existed, but he had never lived. No one had ever given him the chance - except _her._

_I watched you in the chapel on holy nights and spoke to you in the voice of an angel. Our souls met and soared in transcendent flight as we sang to shed light on the darkness. Tell me it was not for nothing!_

He fell to his knees, aware only of a piercing agony. He could not let her go. Never, never. _I try to pray and see only your face, always. Oh God, how can my destruction be my salvation?_

He was heaving for breath, hands pressed hard against the wooden floor _- wood and nails and spilled blood - _and he thought blindly that dying must be better than living out a future of empty, endless days, oh, such a long time to be alone… Misery behind him and desolation stretching before him.

He lived in perpetual fear, ever dreading the day she would finally walk away from him for good. Is that why he had held back? Never aspired to better himself these last months, because he knew that once he'd done so, she would smile serenely and consider her work done, return to Paris with a song in her heart and never look back? What bitter solace could he hope to gain when that connection, that bond between them would be broken, shattered, annihilated? Nothing held any meaning, any value without her. Did he really have the strength to endure that again? It was easy, so very easy for her to break his heart. She broke it every day. A convulsive sob tore through his chest. He felt it always. The longing - such terrible longing!

She was the beginning and ending of his life. Christine, his beautiful tragedy, his sweet salvation. His own patron saint. Baptised and bruised and so very brave_. _He had said once that he had preferred her flawed. _Flawed, but not fallen. _No, he would not let her fall because of him. He would never take by force what she was unwilling to give. If he did… all that would remain was a hollow shell, a bitter reminder of the wrong he had done her. And he wouldn't be able to look at her without the terrible, crushing guilt. He wouldn't be able to look at himself.

_I thought it was enough. To take her body, even if she didn't love me. _

_I was wrong. I was so very, very wrong. Oh God!_

It wasn't enough. He lusted for her body when it was her soul he wanted. Her pure, strong, ardent soul. And her heart to beat for him, her tears to fall for him, to be consecrated by her touch. He had thought himself reborn in the cellars beneath the Opera House, baptised by the salt of her tears, but in the end he had learnt nothing, nothing…

_Help me. Mortify my weak flesh. Make me anew._

He needed to be worthy of her. The kind of man who could be deserving of her love. But how could he ever hope to live up to her high and pure ideals? Her abiding tendency to see good in everyone bewildered him, he who had lived a lifetime witnessing only the degradation and cruelty of others.

He felt the strength draining from him. He torn her away from everything dear to her, stolen her life, taken what should have been the happiest years of her existence, the kind of years she would look back on in old age with the softness of sweet memories and joyful reminiscences. But instead, that innocence had been twisted and corrupted with bitterness and loss and missed opportunities. The guilt was eating him up inside. This knowledge, this sin, was weighing on his conscience, causing his heart to feel cold and heavy within him.

_You could have been happy once. But I destroyed that, too. Everything I touch turns to ash._

Erik felt himself shaking. Everything he had done stood between them. And everything he might yet do…

_I no longer know what I'm capable of… I thought goodness could be easy, that forgiveness was attainable, but it's the hardest thing in the world. Help me, Christine. Help me, please. I love you. I love you. I love you._

Music was coursing through his body, of unmitigated anguish and lamenting. Beneath the mere physical desire, a stronger passion was unfolding wings within him. There was a single, burning prayer in his soul that set his heart aflame but froze his tongue.

_I cannot think – I – I cannot sleep for this bitterness that gnaws within me – what am I to do? Where am I to turn? There is nothing, nothing -_

_You could go to confession._

The words seemed to come from a force beyond himself. Emotion seized and gripped all his senses. He felt it from the depths of his heart, pain and bitterness that no repentance could ever overcome. He was tired down to his soul. He had lived defiant of religious conviction for so long, for without religion there could be no sin. He had been a god unto himself. If he renounced that… then he was nothing but human, weak and fallible. His heart was torn with conflicting impulses, being pulled two different directions. A blackening rage came over him. To expose the last shred of his quivering soul to cold, judgemental scrutiny… no, it could not be borne! He would _not _be reduced to this.

_I cannot – I _will _not – I refuse to grovel before a God that mocks me in my degradation and gives no thought_ _to my sufferings. I will not satisfy her vanity to stoop so low, nor pander to her self-righteous convictions._

_And yet I love her – I love her still! So much so that my love is stronger than my pride. _

_There is nothing I will not do for her. _

* * *

The knock on her door sounded in her ears like the Final Judgement. He was outside her room. Oh God. She could not face a confrontation. Not now. Her entire body shook. She drew a shaking hand over her hair, smoothing down its wild disorder. The hectic flush had left her cheeks, now she was pale and afraid of - she did not know of what. Slowly, Christine stood up, drawing a robe around herself and swallowed hard.

"Come in," she said nervously.

The door opened, the incoming draught cooling her dry, burning eyes. His presence, as always, seemed to dominate her entirely, drowning out all else to insignificance. She could look at nothing else.

He was wearing a mask of white porcelain, its surface shining like winter light, the mask she had not seen in… oh, such a long time. It brought everything back in a sweeping rush; ghosts and angels and sorrow and heartbreaking memories. The force of it paralysed her for an instant. She could see so much more of his face, that even beneath the square jaw and heavy features, still held an indefinable transparency, the soul beneath the surface struggling to reveal itself in rare, blinding flashes.

And everything, everything was different between them now.

"Erik, I -" she stopped, realising she had no idea what to say.

She looked at him in apprehension. There was a strange, glittering energy in his eyes and an unnatural pallor to his skin. An angel of darkness, of destruction.

No. She had been wrong. There was no darkness there. She had expected to see anger, accusation, lust. What faced her now was entreating misery. His eyes were like cut glass, a sharp spearpoint of agony. Defiance and pride struggled in his face. And she knew, then, that for every lie he had ever told her, for every angry word he had flung at her, for every threat he had ever uttered, that he was sorry for it. Humbling remorse filled her.

"Erik." No longer afraid, she came closer of her own volition, the empathy and desire to alleviate his pain expressing itself in her tremulous voice.

He said nothing, merely stood there, his body shaking with tremors of extreme emotion. His mouth was set in lines of grim resolve. She could see the pulse beating hard in his throat, _as it beat when he held me tightly, as though it would break his heart to release me -_

Christine could bear it no longer. His silence was like a knife to the heart, yet she knew she deserved it. _I tasted the salt of his tears. He was weeping as he kissed me. _It was agony unendurable. _How _could she have been so cruel? He had sought out love and she had acted in the worst and most despicable way of all: not rejecting him at once, yet allowing his caresses just long enough to give him the faintest hope -

And she had run, coward that she was.

Tears burned her eyes. She bowed her head, clouded dark hair hiding her sorrowful face. "Oh God, Erik, I'm so sorry -"

He gazed at her blankly. "Sorry?" he echoed. "What have you to be sorry for?"

"I -" No more words emerged from her pale, trembling lips, but her mind struggled with blind helplessness. _Everything, for being unable to love you as want, for being unable to renounce you and freeing us both of this hopeless situation, for being too weak to help you as you truly deserve, as I promised so faithfully…_

"It is I that should be sorry."

The shuddering breath caught in her throat as she raised her head to stare at him in uncomprehending surprise. "Erik, no -" _I won't let you bear the burden of this, not when the fault is all mine -_

"Let me finish!" And the sharpness in his voice was like a laceration. Christine winced and fell silent, her hands clenched so tightly the bones were visible beneath.

Brief remorse flickered through his eyes but he looked away, his expression grim and set. His voice, when he spoke, was no longer fluid and melodic, but harsh and broken, as though each word had to be forced through countless layers of fiercely-bound restraint. "You cannot imagine what my life was like. So dark, hopeless and alone, until I heard you sing for the first time. You cannot comprehend how your voice moved me as I listened in the wings; I wept. It was beautiful and awful and heartbreaking. You sang like you wanted to die. Then I knew there was someone who… understood. Someone else who had walked through grief and shadows, only you - you hadn't let it corrupt you. Oh, I know how it must sound -" The edges of his mouth twisted into that old, diabolical sneer of scorn. It was somehow gruesome in contrast to the pleading, impulsive expression in his eyes; she could hardly bear to look at it. "That a young, beautiful ingénue just _happened _to be what my starved soul needed. And I know how little _my _word must stand with you. But if I merely wanted a pretty girl, the Opera Dorms were full to bursting with such ornaments. I could have taken one by force, dragged her below ground, and who would find her again? But there are limits even to _my _depravity. Or at least, I thought so. That was until I took you, lied to you and betrayed you. It was the last thing I ever did, and it was the worst thing of all."

She could only listen to him with deep sympathy, her eyes dark and wide and earnest. "You know that doesn't matter to me now, Erik."

"Well, it matters to me!" he said harshly. "I need forgiveness, and I know I deserve none. And I think you will mock me if I say what it is that I wish to say…"

"_Never."_

"I can say this only to you. I confess this to no one else. This compulsion, this need is burning within me, my conscience is urging me to go and lay myself down, prostrate myself at the feet of –" he ground his teeth - "I cannot even bring myself to utter it –"

"To who?" she said very quietly. Her heart had begun to beat with a queer, insistent rhythm. "To who, Erik?"

"You know!" he snarled. His fist smote the doorframe. "You know and I know! But I cannot – it is weak and cowardly, and I swore that I would _never_ set foot inside a church again and debase myself so utterly! Not even for eternal salvation! I hate Him! And yet – and yet –"

She swayed where she stood and put out a pale hand to steady herself. "You love Him."

"I –" He shook his head fiercely, wrestling with denial.

Christine fought once more on the brink of tears. "With all your soul and all your heart; it burns in every fibre of your being. You love Him. As He loves you."

Erik's deep-set eyes darkened, hollow as mortal wounds. "God never cared for me. He abandoned me."

"No." Her voice was gentle. "You abandoned Him."

"I had good enough cause to!"

"Erik," she said. She faced him, her girlish figure slim and straight and upright with conviction. "You turn away from God, yet you are the most spiritual person I know."

"Spiritual? No. Think rather that I am damned, Christine."

Her throat was hoarse. "Why do you think yourself so unworthy of love?"

"It has eluded me for thirty-seven years."

His voice was quiet, and without accusation, but for Christine, the words seemed to swell into the silence, bigger and bigger, obliterating everything but the terrible, _crippling _guilt that caused the ache in her chest to intensify painfully. He had never been loved. She had known this, in a subconscious, constantly-there way - but to hear it spoken with such a lack of affect made it real, made it solemnly profound. There was no exaggeration or sentiment or poetic embellishment in it at all. It was sad, and tragic, and _true_. She had known loneliness, had spent nights in speechless agony, but at least she had been loved. Her father, Mama Valerius, Madame Giry, Raoul - all had been there with a comforting word and tender embrace to soothe her fears and chase the demons away.

And Erik had no one.

A deep, agonising sadness overwhelmed her. How could life be so bitterly unfair? If she had not been so _weak_, so devoted to Raoul and the memory of her first (_everlasting_) love, so much a terrified child, she could have loved him. She _should _have loved him. _How can I stand here and so complacently offer him platitudes? How _dare _I? I am the last person in the world who has the right, after everything I have done, after how much I have hurt him… oh, Erik! Forgive me, forgive me, please!_

Lightly, she brushed his unmasked cheek with the tips of her fingers. He gave a sharp, indrawn breath as though the faint touch scorched him. She was speaking now the deepest thoughts in her heart, not merely empty words of sympathy and dutiful platitudes. "I don't think you are evil, for evil men do not repent or seek atonement for their sins. Or worse, they see evil everywhere except within themselves. And you, Erik, you suffer for everything you have done. You bear the burden of those sins and you've done so alone - for so long - and you shouldn't." Christine made a small sound, somewhere between a sob and a gasp. "God be my witness, you shouldn't have to suffer alone, no one should -"

He was standing very still. "Oh Christine," he muttered darkly. "You don't know how you torture me with those words."

"Torture?" She looked up at him, wide-eyed with unhappiness, tears glittering on the ends of her lashes. "The last thing I meant was to make you feel more pain."

He shrugged, a gesture of deep, soul-heavy weariness. "I told you once that I deliberately sought out isolation, to be alone. That I had made myself immune. Do you remember?"

"I remember," she said.

His jaw clenched. "If I am not that, then I am merely pitiful and weak –"

"No." Her eyes were blazing. "To me you have never been stronger."

He was watching her suspiciously through narrowed eyes, wild and wary, as though daring her to laugh. And it hurt. _Even now… even now he doubts me…_

"Here," he muttered finally. He made a violent movement - clutching convulsively at his chest - and the defensive mask fell away at last. A true expression of repentance. "In my heart - I can still feel it. I always will."

Reaching out entreatingly, she pressed his hand in mute empathy, their entwined fingers held over his fiercely pounding heart. "Confession will allow you to feel remorse, to purge your grief, end this guilt. Believe me. Trust me."

"I do," he said. "Until the end of the world."

_Until the end of the world._

And, just like that, all her fears fled.

Words were failing her. _What I always believed and hoped for… and it was of his own volition… his own strong, scarred soul. I knew he was capable of this, I was right to never, never doubt him -_

She pressed her lips to his hard, strong hands, her curling dark hair falling down and shielding her face. He tensed all over, as though turned to stone at the touch of her lips on his flesh. She could taste the salt of tears on the calloused skin and pain wrung at her heart. It was shattering, consuming, unbearable. She had seen the scars he bore, the pain he carried with him always, and it pierced her heart.

"Oh Erik," she whispered, again and again. This tormented, lonely man, her own seraphic angel, sought a way back into heaven and she _would _find it for him, for him she would do anything… _father, angel, music, muse, life…_

She was gazing up at him with passionate admiration, a shaking, tremulous disbelief. "You are really prepared to do this… you have no idea what this will mean to you… what it means to me…"

Erik said nothing, but his eyes were very dark in his still face, rendered motionless with surprise at her outpouring of heartfelt emotion. The pulse in his wrists was beating hard against her fingers and Christine instinctively tightened her hold on him. _His whole life has been leading to this moment. To attain light through darkness and despair. Oh, Erik. You see only the pain, but there is also the glory and rapture -_

"You saved me once," she said shakily. "A long, long time ago. When I was alone and afraid and had nowhere to turn, you came and showed me there was beauty to be found in life. I never truly thanked you for that. Let me do it now… by helping you as you helped me."

Then he did speak at last. "Christine, there is no need -"

"There is every need." She stared at him, unable to put into words the feelings he had inspired in her. His high, proud, noble soul had prevailed as she had always known it must. Never had she admired him more than she did in that moment. _You've given me strength when I was at my weakest… _

"Thank you," she whispered.

He gave a wild, strangled laugh. "Congratulations, Christine. I've just become a penitent."


	28. Confessions

**The Mask and Mirror**

_I, I looked into your eyes and saw  
__A world that does not exist  
I looked into your eyes and saw  
A world I wish I was in_

_I'll never find someone quite as touched as you  
I'll never love someone quite the way  
That I loved you_

(Vast – Touched)

Chapter 28

Light slanted through the vivid stained glass, falling in jagged patches onto the cool stone floor. Walking across it had felt like walking on a bed of red-hot coals, the heat blistering his heels.

Erik was seated stiffly on one of the pews, inhaling the heavy aroma of incense. A fallen being in the house of God. He couldn't remember the last time he had been in a church, which surprised him, as he had been in much need of sanctuary over the last year. Sanctuary, yes. Not penitence, or contrition, or benediction. Not then, anyway.

Golden motes of dust swirled in and out the bars of sunlight that pierced the flagstones from the high windows. The chapel was small, barely discernable between the mosques that were far more prevalent in this country and God knows, it had taken long enough to find. Barely a dozen pews filled the narrow space, the thick air shimmering like a mirage in the intense afternoon heat that was blazing with even more ferocity outside. A Catholic church seemed strangely out of place in this land of Arabic culture, the heady passions that stirred and breathed through the colourful bazaars, the elemental spiritualism of the desert wastes.

This place made him uneasy. The statues of saints that adorned the walls seemed to be gazing down upon him, not with anger, but a kind of sorrowful disappointment. He felt himself crippled beneath the calm scrutiny of those exalted figures that had bled and blazed for Christ. Erik knew that passion, the all-consuming fire and conviction that defined one's existence, that might - if they were very, very fortunate - lead to martyrdom and peace.

He loved Christine with that same single-mindedness of purpose, that fury and idolatry that had driven him half to madness. He refused to hate her, and could not stop loving her. It was no longer an emotion, but a state of being.

They had come here, two pilgrims, one in search of absolution, and the other –?

"Perhaps an exorcism would be more appropriate," he had said, in a tone that tried to be flippant. Christine hadn't laughed.

Erik stared hard at the row of candles across the pew, tiny flames dancing. The weaving vines of flickering light were hypnotic, delirium inducing. Memories of blood and tears washed over him, blurring the edges of reality. The dark symphony of screams rang in his ears. He felt himself being pulled, spiralling down and down into the darkness, where surely so many damned souls awaited him.

The cloying air swam in the small chapel. How the ghosts danced about him! Everywhere he turned, a carnival of torture chambers, mirrors, and blood, blood, blood. _Once for self-defence, once for revenge… _Until the day came when he had wanted the entire world to pay. The anger and outrage had rushed through him like a raging fire and he had hated everyone - God, Christine, Nadir. He looked out on humanity and saw only despair. Erik pressed his lips tightly together, hand clenching into a fist, driving his nails into his palm in an effort to stop himself from crying out. He was consumed by his wounds. Hope dimming at every new atrocity he committed.

Was it possible his crimes were so heinous that he would be cast out from the Church, excommunicated and be told his soul was so blackened with corruption, even God himself could not hope to save it? After all, some people had to go to hell. If all souls could merely be forgiven then wouldn't everyone be guaranteed a place in heaven?

Erik shuddered. He had to stop thinking such things.

His brow was slick with sweat in the cloying heat, the drops of perspiration sliding leisurely downward beneath the mask, but his body was shivering, chilled to the bone. He had an overwhelming desire to run.

_I should not be here._

Yet he was here out of love for Christine, Christine who believed in God and salvation, and who loved with all the strength in her generous heart (and could he dare hope that some of that love might one day be for him?) Everyone had abandoned him except her. She had lost almost everything - yet she stayed. He had been desperate and she had given him hope. Not of her love - oh no, _that _she would never give him - but she had believed in his humanity.

The pew was hard and uncomfortable after sitting for so long, and Erik shifted a little impatiently. He wondered what on earth she had to confess to keep her in there for so long. Perhaps it had something to do with last night. But God, how the time dragged! All the years of his life did not feel so long as this weary vigil.

He was starting to think he should have gone in first. But where to start? The murders, the anger, the lustful thoughts (never fully acted upon, thank God). Because he truth was - and he could hardly believe this himself - that he _did _repent, God help him. He actually sought forgiveness (_penance, punishment_) for all that he had done and for all that he had wanted to do. He needed cleansing fire, to be purified. He was an empty shell, waiting to be filled. Filled with what, though? God's grace? _Forgiveness?_

Forgiveness. Atonement. Absolution. The words had seemed faint and false. Especially for one such as him. And churches made him think about hell just as much as heaven. Oh, he had always believed in hell. He had just doubted that it came in the next life.

Now he wasn't so sure.

Often he had read religious texts with a purely detached, academic eye, but something about this place made it impossible not to believe in _something_. What would happen if he shattered the stained glass and broke the statues or spat the Communion wafer upon the ground, tasting only ashes? Would the Virgin and Child weep blood, would the ground open beneath him and cast him into damnation? What was hell, anyway? Erik thought he had had glimpses of it numerous times in his darkest moods, but was it the burning fire and brimstone of _Revelations_ or Dante's picture of a frozen, barren place, void of warmth and light? He didn't want to consider these things or what they might mean for him. The thought of it made his head hurt.

Was it sacrilegious for his thoughts to be wandering so much? When had he started caring about such things?

His limbs were heavy, weighted as though with shackles of iron, and he thought he must be dragged down into the earth.

He had spent his entire life stumbling from one hell into another. His suffering was almost unendurable – and yet the purity, the sublime beauty of Christine holding out hope, granted him the possibility of benediction. And so he waited, in faith, love and hope. He waited in despair.

On his knees now, crushed by oppressive thoughts. No sound now but the persistent thudding of his heart. Trembling tension rippling through his muscles, stiff from their prolonged inactivity -

"Erik."

Her voice. Reverberating in the abyss of his soul.

His chest tightened in apprehension. He raised eyes of torment and sorrow to her steady gaze. He had not even heard her approach. Her pale hands were curled around the wooden back of the pew, and she was hovering over him in trepidation.

"Erik," she said. "If you cannot - if you do not _wish _to - I understand." In a rustle and crease of fabric, she knelt beside him, her face very close to his. "I understand," she said earnestly.

Again, doubt gnawed at him. He had too much pride for this. He _would not _succumb to this abject humiliation. The fire was already flickering at his heels, and staying here was merely fanning the flames -

_Why did I ask this of her? I am not strong enough for this. I never deserved salvation. I never _wanted _it, until -_

A slender, cool hand softly touched his. Erik glanced down and realised that his hands were clasped with a painful force, nails driving into the flesh_ (but what is flesh when it is the soul that matters?)_

"This is your decision," Christine whispered, her soft voice a rush of warmth against his porcelain-concealed cheek. "Do not feel you have to do anything. Not for me." Her hand tightened on his. "You have already done more than I imagined, more than I had any right to hope…"

There was still time. Return to the house, and -

And what? Continue this shallow mockery of an existence, going nowhere, changing nothing? No.

Resignation swept over him.

His gaze fell upon the large cross that adorned the altar. Redemption was far more difficult than it would appear. His body was strained, nerves wracked with fever. His breathing slowed as he sought to calm himself.

_I am not doing this because I can. I am doing it because I must._

He stood up, and it was probably the hardest thing he had ever done… _harder even than letting Christine go. That almost killed me, but it seemed simple compared to this… oh God, what am I doing here? This is utter madness, yet better madness than hopelessness… _

It seemed eternities passed in the time it took to cross the stretch of floor and reach those unobtrusive wooden doors. He could hear his heart beating thickly in his head as he entered the confined space of the confessional, the closeted darkness closing around him like a dream.

_Help me, Christine. Help me defeat these devils, these angels._

He took an unsteady breath.

"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. This is… my first Confession."

* * *

Christine could not sleep. She was seated, restless and silent at the window of her room, possessed with a strange, nervous pain. The wide, gently rolling plains that were scorched white-gold by day had faded to dusky grey beneath the moon. A hushed stillness lay over everything. It was quiet, and peaceful as it ever could be here. So where did it come from, this agitated struggle of body and mind? The night dragged by, and she could only think, and think, and _think_.

She was stranded here, at the end of the world, and had nothing but Erik. She could not leave him, because she knew that he needed her, needed her more than anyone else ever had. The desire to see him redeemed had become a burning fire within her.

_I will not abandon him to darkness and yet how can I spend my days always wondering, a thousand what ifs passing through my mind for the life of contentment that was almost mine? So I ask, I beg, I plead for _something, _for I cannot live like this much longer, caught between misery and hope. Yet an inescapable conviction possesses me, telling me that an ending to all this is imminent and that perhaps frightens me most of all. For I cannot see how this might come about without destroying him. And that I could not endure. Let me be destroyed, too._

The casement was thrown wide open, and Christine leaned out, breathing deeply. She could smell the earth outside, the air heavy and still. Gazing out so intensely that could almost forget her body, turning gradually numb from her unmoving position on the window ledge. The darkness was absolute. Her vision wavered, and it seemed if she closed her eyes that the desert was rushing away beneath her feet and the vast, star-studded sky fell away to become filled with roiling clouds, rain-laden and thrumming with the approach of a wild storm. And in her mind's eye, the image of a child running along a bright shoreline where the sea shone like glass and the wind-sharpened salt licked at her fingers. Oh, how vivid it was, the smell of brine, the ground sinking under her heels into a swirl of iridescent foam and plants and pebbles, and a great roaring, so loud and endless that she could lose herself in it.

_Raoul! Raoul, hold my hand! The water is too deep and the ground is being pulled away beneath me!_

Remember that laugh, that smile, golden as the sun?

_Hold tight then, but it is only the sand! The sand in the tides. I won't let you fall. I never let you fall._

Christine opened her eyes, her gaze falling once more on the stretch of wilderness, the bewildering and vital landscape outside her window. How far she had come since those distant days. Perros was another time, another world, another life.

And what of Raoul, her companion in those childish exploits? Was he all right, was he alone, was he thinking about her at all, was he trying to find her, perhaps even now following a trail step by step, vowing never to rest and knowing no peace until he saw her once more? Or had he not cared so much as all that, waited too long and dismissed her from his life as he might cast aside any valuable trinket that he possessed, replacing it with a better and brighter substitute? No, that she would not believe. She could not. Yet if he loved her, why would he leave her so long in this way?

She loved him as she loved the laughter he brought to her childhood, as she loved the pounding seas that washed the shores of Perros, leaving everything glistening and new-born in its wake. He was her light and laughter, the companion of the days she longed to escape to, when all was simple and clear. She could recall with aching clarity those treasured moments insignificant to all but lovers. Raoul was everything she admired, everything she longed to be, those best and brightest parts of herself. Tender. Generous. Loving. Everything good and pure in this world was captured within the heavenly blue spheres of his eyes. His eyes, so beloved, the sea of her childhood reflected in those shining orbs -

Not dark. Not shadowed with fury and pain and madness and agonised longing. Yet why then was she _here _and not _there - _that former world she spent so long telling herself she wanted?

_Because… _

_Because… because…_

Erik.

Erik, who looked at her like no one else on this earth, his dark eyes filled with arcane fire. He lived beneath her skin. She didn't know herself without him. She hurt when he hurt, suffered when he suffered, and desperately wanted him to find peace. He had held her so fast and so tight she thought he would never release her. _And he never will. No more than I can walk away, however much I have longed to. For I would be torn and scattered between two worlds. And I cannot, cannot bear to bring any more heartache upon myself, or _him_ - oh, Erik! I hope I die before it comes to that! _

Her old life was lost to her. She saw herself running from him, and time and time again, being pulled back. What was it? This frightening connection that kept drawing them back to each other? They were tied hopelessly to one another.

How far would she have to walk to escape him? How far until the shimmering desert flats turned to the wilds of winter and snow covered the ground once more, until she lost herself in forgetfulness?

Forget? No, no, how could she ever forget? Even now, apart from him, she could still hear those soft strains of music breathing through her soul, solemn and evocative. Running through her very blood, guiding the rhythms of her pulse.

_Do you remember? Do you remember the first time you heard that voice?_

The memory flashed across her mind with startling clarity. Seeing the dark, forlorn world through the eyes of a child, it seemed vast and forbidding and desolate. The walls of the Opera Populaire offered no warmth or shelter, for her illness was not of the body but of the soul. And her father - her poor, dear father - lying cold in the earth. Forever lost to her. The sorrow and loneliness she had felt as the soul and centre of her young life had been buried would not leave her. Frozen tracks leading to the cemetery and back again. She would not have gone though those months again for anything in the world. Huddled in the chapel by moonlight as the snows fell outside from the bleak sky. She had wanted them to cover her in a silent shroud, cloaking every part of her until she could no longer feel. And she had waited, cold as death.

_I know you told me never to lose faith, dear father, but it has been three months now and still no word. I have waited, night after night, as you made me promise, though it is strange and frightening here… and I don't believe. I don't believe… There is no angel and the darkness fills me with dread. It is endless and will swallow me like the sea… Father! Send me an angel or I fear I shall die! My body is numb, and I shiver as though over some great precipice… and I cannot see… I cannot see…_

But instead of silence, a voice, beautiful and unearthly, had whispered in answer.

_Christine._

And in that one moment, the very shape of her existence had been altered. Had she been asleep her whole life before he came? How long had her soul been waiting for him? _Always, always and forever. _Sometimes, on those nights when her senses were shaken and she could hardly breathe for rapture, it seemed so. Her heart was dying, and he had given her faith. Filling her aching soul with holy fire. It had seemed perfect and true.

It had all been lies.

Because she knew better now. Her eyes had been opened (_but only after my heart and soul). _She had learnt that angels weren't gentle, beneficent creatures bestowing kind favours on fortunate mortals. No, angels were tall and proud and ruthless and terrible. Angels could fall, they could destroy and kill. The Bible spoke of angels having fallen from heaven, but never of them ascending.

_Yet what he did today… what he was _willing_ to do. _She had seen the contrition in his eyes, the penitent conviction that shuddered through his large frame as he had crouched in the pews. Afterwards, he had not spoken of what transpired in the confessional and Christine had no wish to pry the information from him. She knew the sanctity preserved within those walls. All the way back he had remained silent, though not, she thought, unhappy. And now perhaps he slept in peace, while she was ill with a thousand thoughts and yearnings. _Why, _she thought wonderingly, _I am more certain of him than I am of myself._

She could sit here no longer in agitated sleeplessness, watching the shadows moving on the walls. Her bed lay only across the room, but it could have been a thousand miles away for all the use she would have of it tonight. Her whole being was aching. She pressed a cool hand to her fevered brow.

_I have prayed and dreamed myself into madness these restless nights, and still nothing, nothing, nothing. No word, no hint, when the overwhelming need for guidance devastates me. What am I supposed to do? _

_And, oh, Erik you are the source and centre of this pain. You say I am your salvation, your redemption, yet if that is so, then why do you leave me feeling this way, so delirious with agony and so exhausted with weeping? And how - in a hairsbreadth, in the twinkling of an eye - how quickly it can turn to a joy that defies reason._

She exhausted herself with wishing and yearning, yet did not know what it was she prayed for so fervently. Hope, fear, suspense, joy, misery passed through and through her. She had worn herself out with intense feeling. Her very soul seemed to quiver, strung tight as a violin string.

_I must see him, must speak to him. I understand nothing save that I am in this state because of him. Whether it is to curse him, seek solace in his arms or fall weeping at his feet, I know that I cannot stand being this way a moment longer… His music annihilates me yet this silence is worse… I don't care whether his voice will be my downfall, my damnation… I don't care… for he is in everything anyway, and has been for as long as I can remember. My dearest pain and my agonising bliss. It is all one and the same… it is all because of him._

* * *

The door was ajar and she could see a faint glow of flickering light within, causing shadows to shiver along the floor, reaching outward, then retreating, then reaching out again. Her nightgown barely making a whisper against the stone, Christine edged forward, slipping through the narrow space the barely-opened door offered.

The first thing she became aware of was the scent; not the lingering subtle aroma of incense and leather that she always associated with Erik, but instead the fragrant currents of nocturnal air carried in through the wide-open casement. The desert night seemed to be in this very room; the coarse sands, the sun-veined earth beneath, the headiness of sweet, dusty amber and crushed spruce leaves. She could hear every sound with startling clarity, the insects outside, the faintest whisper of a dry breeze as it passed through the grasses. Close, yet somehow reaching her from a great distance.

Erik was seated at the desk, leaning over a disorder of score sheets and writing feverishly. He ran a hand through his mass of heavy black hair, and sighed in frustration, sitting back slightly. "Wrong place," he muttered to himself, and bent over the scattered papers again. His stiff cravat had been untied, hanging loosely around his collar. The partially opened shirt hung in pearlescent folds that rippled with every moment. The mask had been removed and was lying carelessly on one of the chairs, exposing his face with a startling intimacy. A couple of candles on the dresser had been lit, the pinpricks of light burning in the corners of her vision and causing a play of golden light to dance across the burnished skin of his throat and chest, shadows upon shadows.

Christine knew she should not be here, especially seeing him in what was essentially a state of undress, particularly considering she was wearing nothing but a thin shift herself. Suddenly acutely conscious of the fact, she wrapped her arms around herself at once.

Erik must have sensed the movement; he glanced up sharply and started. His hand moved instinctively towards the mask, but she said quietly, "Don't."

Without ceremony, he swept the papers to one side and stood up, facing her with an expression of searing intensity.

"Christine." His voice. Her soft lullaby, her soothing damnation. "Is something wrong?"

His black hair fell untidily across his forehead, but it was still not long enough to hide the blasted skin, scarred and discoloured, the ravaged flesh hanging in dun folds around his dark eye. Christine stared at the disfigured half of his face, thrown to disproportionate size in the long shadows, wary, savage, bestial, and realised she was entirely without fear. All she saw was the lonely soul imprisoned behind the wall of distorted flesh and marvelled that it had never seemed so visible before.

"I don't know what brought me here," she whispered.

She was dressed in a loose white nightgown that exposed the iris-like delicacy of the skin of her neck and shoulders. A silver cross hung around her neck. Dark hair spilled over her shoulders in disordered waves. At the sight of her, Erik had to remind himself to breathe. He swallowed and tore his gaze from her with an effort. Resisting her was going to be hard. She looked like an angel, Petrarch's Laura perhaps, descended from heaven in a nocturnal visitation. He didn't like to remind himself that in Petrarch's case, the visit had been a purely chaste one.

Soberly she drew nearer, though still doubtful, hesitant. Her marble face softened by the dimly glowing light. "I feel so lost, Erik."

She trembled visibly, and how fervently he wished he could take her into his arms, that he had that right. The need shuddered through him, impassioned as an unspeakable wish. He had whispered her name to the shadows night after night, been plagued with dreams of her appearing to him like this and so many other dark secrets envisioned in the nocturnal hours that she could never, _never _know. His dreams burning with her image. His nights torn between respite and rage. _Oh, Christine._

Instead, he spoke calmly. "Lost? How so?"

"I hardly know where to begin."

His brow furrowed, doubt evident in his features. "You've been so strong through everything."

"Strong?" she echoed disbelievingly. "Erik, I'm terrified."

"Of what? Tell me."

She stared at him wide-eyed. "You really don't know?"

Erik shook his head. But he did not speak, to her relief. She did not think she could bear it if he did. Her thin shoulders sank beneath the filmy nightgown in a hopeless gesture, yet by the time the words had formed in her mind, Christine realised she felt only very calm.

"Everywhere I turn," she said reflectively, "I see your face. Your voice will haunt me until the day I die. I sometimes feel that to leave you would be to renounce my own self. Yet to stay would be losing myself entirely. I'm trapped, Erik. I'll never be free again."

Erik watched her silently, but a burning was beginning in his eyes.

"Perhaps this is my penance for leaving you."

He came swiftly towards her with surprising grace for such a large man, the movement loosening the poet's shirt from the waistband of his trousers. It hung in billowing folds, startlingly pale in contrast to the tanned skin of his chest. He looked so strong, so solid in her wavering world that she wanted nothing more than to have him hold her protectively, but had no words to speak her desire.

"You have nothing to punished for," he insisted fiercely. "Do you hear me? _Nothing."_

"Then why do I feel like this?"

His eyes glowed deeply in the shadow. "Because we're both the same. We cannot simply walk away, or abandon the other, even after everything. So we stay. We fight, even if it means we only tear each other apart -"

A broken whisper. "Don't."

"You have done things for me that no other on this earth has dared to. You've given me hope… meaning… a purpose."

It was too much. Hearing this praise, this gratitude, when she was the last person in world who deserved it. She looked down at her clasped hands that had begun to tremble.

"All I wanted to do was help you. Be there for you. I wanted it more than anything in the world. I've been fighting so long for you, and now… I'm just afraid."

"Of what?"

"Of you. Of me. Because it is never that simple. Not with us. Something will happen and… and it will be like this, all of this… just never happened. And I couldn't bear it. I can't bear the thought that we'll fight and lie and hurt each other again, or that I might hate you. I would rather die."

"What are you saying, Christine?"

"What is wrong with us, Erik? If I want to help you, then why do I hurt you? Why you do you hurt me?"

The corners of his grim mouth tightened imperceptibly. "Don't pretend I haven't apologised for what I've done, Christine. I have, time and time again."

She looked up at him suddenly, tearful-eyed, accusing. "Have you, Erik? Have you said, in so many words, _I am sorry_?"

An immense silence fell between them..

Chistine did not even know where the words had come from, but knew at once that it had been the wrong thing to say. Erik's body tensed as though struck by lightning. Hooded eyes blazed dark fire, an infernal glow like lit coals. Coupled with the cruel scars on his face it made him appear almost demonic. He rose himself up like a stalking predator, taking a couple of foreboding steps towards her, the movement unnervingly soundless for his heaviness of frame. He was angered beyond anything she had seen in a long time, not since -

"You push me too far," he said darkly. She could almost feel the vibrations in his dangerously quiet voice, low and threatening in the space between them.

"I didn't mean -" she began to say, though she had. She reached out to soothe him, to calm that ferocious unpredictably of temper, but he shook off her entreating grasp. A shudder wracked his powerful body and she could see the tightly corded muscles of his shoulders tense beneath the loose shirt.

"How much further must I abase myself before you are satisfied, Christine? What more would you have me do?"

She sighed wearily. "Please, forget it."

"No, my dear." He crossed his arms, his voice a curt command. "Enlighten me."

She shook her head and began to turn away. "If you are going to be like this -"

He did catch hold of her then, seizing her arms in a tight grasp. She stumbled slightly, her body on the verge of falling, and he steadied her roughly. Framed by the dim light, he seemed larger than she had ever seen him, larger than life itself, impossibly tall and broad-shouldered, overshadowing her slender frame with hopeless ease as he trapped her against him. His closeness radiating heat beneath the silken material.

"Everything - _everything _I have done has been for you." His voice was an angry growl, hot and savage against her skin.

"_Everything?" _Despairing fury consumed her then, fury at _him _for throwing her into this hopeless situation, for making her need him as she like a caged animal she fought against being in the circle of his arms, resisting what she had longed for only moments before. Unimaginable to think that last time they had been so close, he had hauled her against his body, rendering her senseless with consuming touches and searing kisses. _"_Renounce your life, your reputation, your happiness, your _love - _then speak to me of everything!"

"Ever the martyr, Christine," he sneered. His expression was cruel, mocking. His brown hands looked very large around her slender white forearms and his grip was iron. "I should have known this was just more Catholic self-flagellation," he hissed with malice.

"You didn't seem to object in the church earlier."

"A mistake, my love, and one which won't be repeated."

Christine was about to rise to the provocation when the realisation of what he had called her stilled her movements. _My love. _The words had left him sarcastically, in the heat of passionate anger, but still they made her shiver. Against her will, she felt the anger inside her fading.

"Look at me," she said pleadingly. "Look into my eyes, and tell me once and for all that you are sorry."

Erik stared at her with a softening in his wild eyes, though the lingering frustration remained. "Is that what you need to hear?"

She remained silent, uncertain of what he intended.

He laughed, low and bitter, and shook his head in disbelief at himself. "Christine," he said in raw tones, "I'm -"

But she placed a finger over his lips, at once contrite and remorseful. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I should never have demanded that from you."

"You were right, though," he said, and the words seemed to leave him reluctantly. "I never did apologise to you. Not really."

In a rush, she released a breath she didn't realise she had been holding. "And what I said… I know how hard this has been for you."

"Harder for you, it seems." His voice was soft.

"It was wrong of me to blame you." But those words were still not enough. Half-blindly, her shaking hands went to his face, hovering tremulously on the severe lines of his jaw. Beneath the wasted skin, she thought she felt the dampness of tears and it was this that brought the words from her trembling lips. "Erik, I would do anything for you," she said quietly. "You know that, don't you?" She lifted her entreating gaze to his. "There is nothing you cannot ask of me."

"Except that you love me."

The sheer desperation in his voice burned within her. "Erik…" She bit back the words until it hurt. She could hear her only own heartbeat, loud as thunder in the silent room.

A resigned sigh passed his lips as her hands fell away helplessly to her sides. He would always ask, and her answer would always be the same. He already had too much of her. She had given him everything. She had given _up _everything. She would not surrender her soul to him. She _could _not.

The energy had drained from her body, and now she only felt tired - terribly so. She sat down helplessly on the bed. _Why is this so hard? _

"So what does that leave?" Erik's voice was low.

"I don't know," she said, but she did. _It feels like an ending._ But she pushed that thought away. _I will never abandon him while he needs me. _"I just… I don't know. What we do, or where we go from here."

"It leaves tonight." Impossible to read his expression in the subtle interplay of light and shade.

Christine smiled up at him, a little sadly. "And what about tomorrow?"

He did not answer, but instead sat down beside her on her the bed. She felt a shiver of warmth at his presence. It still unsteadied her, this swift change from madness to tenderness. Who was this strange man who had hypnotised her, drawn her so entirely into his dark world? Would she ever be free of him? She had allowed herself to be drawn willingly into this prison, and it had somehow turned into a palace. She still could not see the expression on his face. If she could, perhaps the words would never have left her.

"You did an incredible thing today, Erik. I will never forget it."

Divine sound, angelic eyes. She felt herself falling away into madness, into perfect clarity. His closeness stole her breath. The expression in his deep eyes was too eloquent, the depth of emotion she glimpsed within those dark orbs almost frightening in its sheer intensity. Her slender hands began unconsciously toying with the pale material of her skirts, threading the fine satin through and through fingers that had begun to tremble.

Erik's warm hand suddenly covered her own, stilling the agitated movements. All reason seemed to abandon her in a rush at the simple touch. His hold was gentle, achingly so, yet she could not have drawn away for all the power in the world. His rough palm smoothed over her own, old scars and callouses a constant reminder of what he had endured. Her fingers instinctively entwined with his in mute sympathy.

His downcast face was thrown in shadow. She stared, mesmerised, at their intertwined hands. Her pulse was singing beneath his carefully gentle fingers. A breathless sigh escaped her parted lips. Gently, with tender fingers, he caressed the soft skin.

She trembled, unmoving, as he lifted her hand to his lips. Trance-like, his lowered gaze drank in the pale skin that had become flushed with heat. Her heart began beating hard. She could feel his warm breath, a shuddering exhalation choked with desire, and still she could not move.

When he pressed his lips to the tender skin, Christine almost cried out. She was unable to speak through emotions she could not articulate. She felt they would overrun her.

With unbearable slowness, he turned her palm upwards and she felt the sleeves of her nightgown fall back, exposing the smooth skin of her bare arms. She closed her eyes, lost in sensation.

"Erik," she breathed unsteadily. Her skin was starting to burn within his impassioned hold. He began to trail slow kisses along her wrist and down the length of her inner arm. His lips were warm, soft, languid. She felt faint with longing as he tenderly worshipped her flesh with his mouth. _My God… _

Breathless whispers falling on her skin, inarticulate words hoarse with need. He was leaving a searing trail of fire in every fervent touch of his lips, and her other hand reached out, shaking violently, wanting to entwine in his dark hair, hold him to her -

"Erik!" Her voice was a soft, frantic cry. It seemed to come from outside herself. "Release my hand - please!"

Startled, he raised his head. She looked away from the flash of his troubled gaze. It seared through her like an arrow.

To her surprise, he obeyed at once, letting her hand fall onto the net of silk pooled in her lap. Christine clenched it into a fist, sick with misery.

They sat in silence for some moments. She could almost imagine the beat of that fierce heart, wild enough to shatter her.

Erik's gaze was still on her like a tangible weight, grim and sullen and brooding. She wondered if, at last, he finally hated her. It would almost be easier if he did _(though my heart cannot stand any more breaking)_. Her stricken face was downcast as she tried to suppress the tremors passing through her body. He must have felt it, sat beside her as he was, but made no more of it than if she had been seated beside a silent shadow. But she saw a large hand clench against his knee and the furiously helpless gesture only increased her sense of guilt further, if that were possible. She could endure her own pain, but what restraint was this costing him?

"Why?" he said finally. And - _oh! _- the mournful, terrible longing in his voice. It could have stopped her heart. At last, she raised her eyes to his awful face; yet it was the unscarred side that was somehow harder to look at. Would she ever be able to stop this unfair cruelty?

"You know why," she said quietly.

Erik's jaw clenched with such force that he wondered it did not break. The Vicomte de Chagny. That golden-haired fool. The man possessed the world and held it so lightly. All else had been powerless over them, until he came. Nothing would have taken her from him but for de Chagny.

_Why? Why must he steal from me the sole thing in this world that I hold dear? _

The ardent suitor had pressed on her kisses of trembling, youthful devotion, caressed her upturned face with tender fingers, gold and porcelain against rose-hued blushes. All while Erik watched in furious silence, a ghost exiled in the shadows. The two of them, so beautiful, bound together in that fierce embrace; her arms white as snow, sweet as summer. She spun, dark curls flying wildly, limpid eyes full of light and joy. She had looked so radiant, so happy. Happy - without _him. _The scene still tortured his dreams. Spring came into her life, and winter forever in his. . A world of light, of ribbons and lace and fragrant gardens that was forever denied him. Everything he had offered her, given her, cast aside as though it meant nothing. He felt wretched with hopelessness, crushed by a weight heavier than the earth. His agony distorting into anger. He had risen from Apollo's lyre, a brooding, murderous shadow. _I swear it, that nothing, nothing will ever part us. _

_I would have killed him then. But her happiness - her damned happiness made me hesitate. Or perhaps revenge whispered me to wait._

Oh, he had writhed, burned, tortured, schemed for hours to find a way, any way, to drag her beneath the earth, to _him _once more. He had burned the Opera House but that was nothing. He would have burned the world to reach her.

_Joseph Buquet, Piangi – you killed them! You killed them! And you feel nothing – you really don't care, do you?_

_Oh, I cared. But not enough._

Erik held himself still, perspiring, gripped with emotion.

"Can I tell you something, Erik?" Christine's soft voice startled him, dragging him away from those horrifying recollections. "Something I have told no one?"

Her fine, delicate-featured face was troubled; he could see that as clearly as he could instinctively see any emotion Christine was experiencing, for her transparent nature never concealed itself from anyone. All that she felt expressed itself in her clear eyes, where there lurked no pettiness or deception that he had witnessed with such contempt in the other girls that flitted around the Opera Populaire. Christine had always unconsciously held herself apart from such trivial behaviour; her thoughts elsewhere, always following those high and pure ideals that led her to trust others blindingly, never seeming to realise there was anything remarkable in doing so.

"You can tell me anything."

He felt her slight frame shiver. "I tried to speak in the confessional, but I couldn't find the words. And tonight, I have been unable to sleep, just _thinking _endlessly…" Her voice trailed off.

It struck him as faintly ironic that he was the playing the part of a confessor, especially after everything that had transpired between them. Before, it had always been _her _helping _him, _consoling him, strengthening him… and now she came to him seeking comfort and guidance. _And I am the last person in the world who has the right to give it to her._

"Have you ever had a glorious dream, so beautiful and vivid that on waking, life seems pale and listless by comparison?"

"I have had little enough cause to dream, Christine."

She paled to the lips. "I had a dream that I carried in my heart for years. And I thought I was on the threshold of it becoming reality. And now it seems further away from me than ever. And I don't merely mean this distance. Before then… ever since Raoul's brother died there's been something… hardened inside him. I have tried to pretend it wasn't there. He's always been so good to me… but I couldn't help noticing it. Yet I thought - I _hoped _- things could be as they were. That is all I have ever wanted."

Erik hated himself for the subtle thrill that ran through him at her words. He had already guessed much of this from her intoxicated ramblings that she clearly had no recollection of, but to have her earnestly confessing it before him like this…

"Or perhaps it is not him at all, but me… perhaps I am the one who has changed." She lifted her pale face to his in a wild sort of desperation. "Is it true, Erik? Am I really changed? But then, _how _am I so altered?"

Her entreating gaze pierced his heart. Erik suddenly remembered how he had kissed her, hard and desperately, as though he meant to be annihilated in it, and longing struck through him so intense that he felt it as a physical pain.

He gave her no answer, though he knew perfectly well the change she spoke of. He could see it clearly even now, that first glimpse of her, distressed and forlorn in the Parisian streets as the snows fell around her. Erik shuddered at the thought of what might have come of her had he not encountered her that night. A dear, dying prisoner in that coldly magnificent mansion.

"You have never seen that house, Erik. Sometimes I feel like I am walking through an illusion. It is so perfect and pristine I feel it must melt away to mist beneath my fingers. It seems like a mirage or a fragile house of cards. I have passed months within those walls, Erik, have committed them to memory until they are as familiar as the sight of my own hands, and yet it is no good. Hours and days yet still it is not home."

"And where is home, Christine?"

Her quiet laugh echoed between them. _"Do you think I would be here, if I knew the answer to that?" _

He glanced at her sharply, But there was no mockery in her expression; she merely looked pale and sad.

"Forgive me, Erik. That sounded crueller than I intended. But truly, I have no idea. Home was always wherever my father was. And when he died, all sense of home died with him… I've been wandering ever since." _And no one to sing me lullabies in the storm, to calm the tempestuous elements that battle against me, that beat wildly within me._

"I thought it was so perfect. That _we _were perfect. Yet sometimes it all seems so superficial. I feel as though I am taking part in a strange game where no one has taught me the rules. It all comes so instinctively to Raoul, he was born into it. I don't know if I'm ready to be a part of that world. I don't know if I'll ever be ready. Perhaps - oh, this is so terrible of me - but perhaps that's partly why I agreed to come with you. So I could prolong this engagement."

Erik raised his eyebrows.

Christine looked at him quickly and a flush overrode the startling whiteness in her cheeks. "I didn't mean –"

"I know what you meant. I'll try not to be offended. Continue."

But she pressed her pale hands to her forehead. "Oh God, why am I telling you this? Why am I _saying _this?"

Now was his chance. Now was the opportunity to seize advantage of the situation and say what he had wanted to say for years. Words were his mastery. He could paint the prospect of a life among the Parisian aristocracy in drab grey colours; cast a forbidding shadow over a future in such an existence. He could do it. Had he not been silently praying and hoping for such a moment?

What was he waiting for?

_I confessed, forgive me Father for I have sinned, beyond imagining, beyond enduring… I spoke until my throat burned and I could not see the darkness for tears. I recited the Pater Nosters and knew some blessed moments of calm and release -_

Had he cleansed his soul, only to blacken it once more?

_Why? Why must she tell me these things?_

Each revelation burned and blasted him. Temptation hovered in the shadows of his mind. Let him do it. Let the Vicomte perish from her mind once and for all.

_I have it in my power to destroy the man utterly, to crush the love out of her so entirely that not even the ashes will remain. _

_Yet she would not love me for it. No, she would only hate me forever. _

He knew in his heart that her words came from tiredness and frustration and vulnerability. If he sought to turn Christine's mind against the man she loved, she would despise him for it tomorrow. Even she would not forgive him that. _Could _he derive any satisfaction from her hatred and despair? Had he not destroyed her enough? He had already betrayed her trust so many times.

How could he be a demon to such an angel?

Erik could not help but observe the irony. He had been waiting for this chance, and now it was here, he did not want it. _Oh, I hate him still. But I love her more._

"You are saying these things because you're tired and upset." His tone was flat and emotionless. _This is necessary. I will not allow my hopes to be destroyed again. I believe it would kill me. _"You will forget you ever felt this way in the morning. I think it best that you go to bed."

Christine half-turned, the shadow of a whisper. She swallowed, and looked at him, her upturned face resolute. He could see himself reflected in the dark circles of her irises

"Do you want me to leave?" Her voice was very quiet.

A wild energy shook through his frame, though he tried to hold himself still. His gaze held hers and she did not look away.

"No," he said hoarsely.

"Then I'll stay," she said, as though it were the easiest thing in the world.

* * *

"Tell me about Perros," he said.

They were lying still, shoulder to shoulder, her softness a blissful warmth at his side. The candle flame was almost extinguished, a faint quiver of incense hovering in the still air. Christine started and sighed at his voice, so close. She shifted position slightly, turning her head so she was facing him. Her cheek resting on the curve of her arm, the glimpse of her face a pale, curving shadow, achingly beautiful.

"Perros?" she repeated.

"You used to talk of it all the time when I was teaching you at the Opera. Now you never mention it. I just wondered why."

Her soft lips parted in a faint smile. "It was my favourite place in all the world."

"Was?"

She sighed, though it seemed to come more from resignation than unhappiness. "People change. Things that seemed significant in childhood pale as we grow up. And Perros was like… a fairytale."

"You don't believe in fairytales?"

He read the answer in her wistful eyes. "Not as I once did. But I will always love Perros. Even now the sea satisfies some craving in me."

"The sea is the strongest and cruellest thing we know." He could barely form the words, though he spoke truthfully. He sometimes thought it was the only thing outside his music that responded to the wild moods in his soul, filled his stormy heart with a fierce, savage delight.

"For _you_, perhaps. But the strongest and cruellest thing I know is you."

Before Erik could try and articulate a response, she sat upright, and his body felt bereft at the loss of her. But then she leaned over and he could almost feel her quick intake of breath, close to his face, her falling hair a dark veil between them, the loose waves becoming lost in the gossamer folds of her nightgown. She peered intently at him, almost childlike, as she sought to read his expression.

He lay still under the silent scrutiny, holding her in his gaze until his eyes burned. How strange that now the sight of her evoked worship, not desire. She seemed no longer a merely a girl but a holy vision, a part of his spiritual life, conveying a radiant separateness from the secular world and all its pains. She radiated within his inner darkness a powerful and unquenchable light.

Breath. A baptism. Memory stole over him sweetly in that soft light that seemed to blur past and present. He saw her as she once was: a pale girl in a white dress, crowned with an aureole of dark hair. She had fascinated and stirred his pity from the first: the lonely child haunted by loss, stranded in a world that was not hers. And as the years passed, the more she tried to be someone she was not and bury her fire beneath a calm, fragile exterior, she died a little more inside. But, lurking in the shadows, Erik had seen her, Christine, the true Christine; the broken girl enslaved by society, overlooked by those who were supposed to care for her, unaware of her true power. And he loved it all - the frailty and the strength, the frost and the fire. He had recognized his true soul mate and sought to bring her back to life. And she had let him. For a time. There had been a glimmer, a spark, and it set them on fire. Would he ever know such annihilating completeness again?

He closed his eyes and heard again the divine music that pierced his soul. It was filled with a beauty that transcended reason. Transcending him to a place where nothing else mattered, only the absolute intensity of every emotion that he could possibly comprehend.

_You sang._

_And we were… we were… _wewere.

_It was…_

_All._

With an effort, Erik heaved himself upright, resting his back against the wooden headboard. He could feel the cool air against his skin, strange, considering he had spent his nights in heat and fever _(dreaming and burning of her, endlessly). _He had imagined her in this room so many times; with him, beneath him as he plunged into her body, drawing her to the heights of ecstasy. But he had never imagined her just _being _here, trusting him entirely and knowing no fear. He barely seemed possible. She knew all the darkest, ugliest parts his soul yet stayed unconditionally by his side, believing in him, doing everything she could for him.

"From the very first moment I saw you," he said, hearing himself speak as though from a great distance, "I knew there was something different about you."

"I remember." Her voice was dreamy with recollection. "The night I heard your voice."

"No. It was before that. Before I had even thought of appearing to you. It was just another rehearsal. Nothing extraordinary. But there was something. You looked as alone as I felt. And I wanted to comfort you."

"You did. And you still are."

"Some comfort," he said, a little bitterly.

Lightly, Christine rested her hands on his shoulders and looked up at him, her bright face radiant and inspired, the clarity of spirit shining through. Her eyes the mirror of his, the same, yet a reversal. "In all my life," she said. "I have never known anyone with such a capacity for love as you."

"You told me once," he said in a low voice, "That what I felt for you wasn't love. Lust, I believe you called it, and a desire to possess."

He glimpsed the flash of remorse pass across her transparent features, and he knew then that she would have given anything to take those words back. "Erik," she said seriously. "You are full of love. That is what you are, who you are. You follow your heart in everything you do, wherever it might lead you. I realise that now. Even if you believe in nothing else. Believe that."

Erik searched her face intently. He was aware only of those great dark eyes, still a little troubled, lucent with the remnant of sadness. The last vestiges of candlelight caught within those grave depths. He could have fallen before her in adulation, yet he could not move. She leaned forward and the soft press of her lips against his scarred cheek astounded him.

"Thank you," she whispered.

"I haven't done anything."

"Yes, you have. Just being here, listening to me. It means so much."

He lay back in the sheltering darkness, and she sank down beside him in a rustle of silken fabric, the fragrant waves of her hair settling around them. Only remarkable stillness now, caught as they were between light and dark. Reverent silence filling the room. She breathed easier now, the frenetic tempo of her heart slowed to a gentle ebbing.

"Sometimes I used to think I had dreamed you into being," she murmured. So soft and close to him. A mere extension of himself. The only peace he had ever known. "You came when I needed you most. When I thought all hope had left me forever. I sometimes feel that everyone is a stranger to me but you."

"Are you real, Erik?" The brush of her soft hand across his tense brow, the scarred flesh of his face. The faintest echo of a caress. Her fingers lacing through the coarse strands of his hair. "Even now, I still feel I hardly know."

"I am as real as you, Christine."

"I think you are a ghost that will fade away by morning." Her voice was a murmur, heavy with drowsiness.

The soft exhalation of air against his skin was almost indistinguishable from his own. Warm legs tangled in his, confined still by the clinging skirts, and Erik could only long and pray that one day they might lie in such a manner with no material barriers between them. Yet still this separation, this exquisite sorrow. But he was close to her, closer than he had been even when holding her body in passion. It stirred him beyond understanding. He loved without thought, without reason. That all-encompassing ache he had endured silently for years remained undiminished. He must always see her, must always hear her voice. To have her love him was now the necessary condition of his existence.

"What now, Christine?" he whispered in demand.

There was no answer.

Erik glanced sidelong at her and saw the dark crescents of her closed lashes, startling in the paleness of her face, her hair a riotous disorder of curls spread across the coverlet. Slender fingers were caught in the folds of his shirt, a gesture both childlike and possessive that oddly touched his heart. Her pale cheek was warm against his.

Could she love him? _Could _she?

His hand smoothed away the errant tendrils of dark hair that clung to her forehead. Her lips moved unconsciously, as though in prayer. The lines of purity and the delicate contours of her face were still with peace, and it seemed to Erik that he would remember the sight of it always.

"Sleep Christine," he whispered.

He felt strangely purified.


	29. Escape, Part 2

**The Mask and Mirror**

_And if you say this life ain't good enough  
I would give my world to lift you up  
I could change my life to better suit your mood  
Cause you're so smooth _

(Santana, Smooth)

Chapter 29

The riotous tumult and clamour of the streets outside had long passed and now the terrible silence pressed down on him, engulfing him, leaving nothing but the suffocating weight of his own thoughts. No sound in the empty room but his own breathing.

Raoul slid down the wall. He could not take any more. It was too much. A choked, ragged gasp of dry air filled his lungs. His back was pressed against the rough wood surface, the abrasive friction sore against the damp flesh where, he suspected, her nails had left marks. His body felt drained from the shuddering aftershocks of pleasure and now all he was left with was this cold emptiness, his perspiration cooling in the sultry air of approaching dawn. But around him, inside him, all was darkness.

_What have I done? What have I done?_

Slowly, his seeking hands found his discarded shirt, draping it loosely around his exhausted body. The crisp cotton clung uncomfortably to his skin, almost unbearable in the stuffy heat of the upstairs room. In the close darkness, his eyes could discern the small square of the window, the horizon outside painted in unnatural streaks of russet and ochre. How far would he have to walk down those winding, labyrinthine streets until he lost himself? He wanted to lose himself. He wanted to run, he wanted to forget. He wanted to die.

After all, he had nothing left to live for anymore. He had lost Christine forever. In one moment, it had all been destroyed. He had destroyed it.

_Oh God. _

The enormity of what he had done consumed him. Everything… hurt. He had never known anything like this rawness. He couldn't stand it.

_Christine._

Raoul pressed cold hands to his face, feeling burning moisture against his cracked palms. Overwhelming sadness filled him. Through the blackness, her image rose as a silent reproach; the ardent light in her eyes, the glow on her pale brow, the purity outlining her slender form, her devotion and perfect innocence -

How could he ever look at her again? How could he speak to her?

_I did everything for you. I risked scandal for you, abandoned my life for you, travelled across the world for you, suffered for you, killed for you._

And it was all for nothing.

He had done something terrible. Unforgivable.

_Oh God, what have I done? What have I become?_

There was no going back. Everything was broken.

His stomach was churning sickeningly. Just breathing was too hard. Hopelessness settled over his shoulders like a cold weight. This ache inside him was unendurable, constant… except when he was with_ -_

But Raoul shook his head stubbornly, refusing to allow his thoughts to go down a path he would not follow. He would not think of it. It was all too messy and horrible and confusing.

But he could not stop thinking about it. The scent of her still lingered in the room, around him, on him. Whiskey and amber inside his very pores, clinging to his skin as her hands had done while -

_Between the shadows, silken lips opening beneath his, he swallowed those soft, frantic cries that were lost in the heady darkness. They had not even made it so far as the bed. Her naked skin, subtly lit by the hazy golden light, was impossibly soft against his as he slid a hand down the contours of her body, relishing the torn moan she breathed against his mouth, the intoxicating dash of whiskey still clinging to her lips. No concubine could have maddened his senses more than this girl did in the mere act of tightening her arms around his waist in a deliciously clinging entrapment, her actions fuelled only by innocence, instinct and insatiable need._

_Dragging his mouth from hers, he inhaled the satin fall of saffron-scented hair as it spread around her in a fan of deep gold, wayward strands clinging to the perspiration that shimmered along her collarbone. An intimate twist of his fingers and she was clutching him wildly, eyes dark and opaque with mindless desire. That sinfully limber body twisted beneath his, thighs parting to welcome him, and he willingly slid inside her with a blissful groan. The pulse of drums beating in his ears, he drove into her more deeply still, losing himself in the decadent sensations, liquid heat, amber and soft shadows -_

And he had _enjoyed _it. More than enjoyed it. He had drank in it, _revelled _in it and demanded more. Driven them both the heights of delirious sensation, their bodies so entwined he could no longer tell where he ended and she began. And the name he had called out in those last fleeting moments of coherent thought was Meg's. In the hot, close darkness, she had become his entire world as they came apart together.

_I want her, _he thought dully. _I want her and I shouldn't. _It was almost a relief to admit this to himself. Even now, he wished her here, longed for that warmth. _But I killed that too, tonight. She will never want to see me again. And with good reason._

But why did he want her? He didn't… _love_ her, he was sure of that_. _But still he _needed_ her. Until tonight, he had not realised how much. Her strength, her stubbornness, her fire. Oh, her passion could burn right through him. She made him _feel. _She was so strong and fierce. Light and warmth. And now she was gone, it had left him dark and cold and empty.

_I cared for her. More than I should have. More than I had any right to._

The one good thing he had left in this horrible world and he had ruined it. He had taken her innocence, too, and torn it to shreds. How must she be feeling?

Betrayed. Used. Violated.

_And all because she tried to help me. She only wanted to help._

Barely had he come back to himself in that warm lethargic oblivion, when she was gone. She had left without a word. She had not spoken to him.

_And why should she? After what I did, she must hate me. _I _hate me._

He had taken her on the dusty, nail-beaten floor of a cheap boarding house as though she were no better than some common whore. How could he have done that to her? What kind of despicable being was he to have done that? She didn't deserve that. She deserved a blissful marriage to a man she loved and who loved her more than anything in the world, she deserved years of light and laughter…

And he had used her.

He had just wanted to _feel _again. To have some proof that he was still human, that a part of his former self had still remained.

And now that self was gone forever.

When had he changed? _Why _had he changed? Why had he become this despicable shell of a being? Someone who lied and murdered and betrayed those he professed to care for?

He had turned the mirror to the wall. He could no longer face the stranger that stared back at him. A noble, innocent man lost and driven to madness. Yet worse still was the thought of what he looked like on the inside. His entire being crumbling into ashes. This slow, dull decaying of his soul. His soul… no, his soul had been left behind in Paris. He had lost a part of himself when he crossed the sea and it could never be regained.

_There is no going back. I am trapped in this man forever._

His gaze fell on the two empty glasses. He wanted to hurl them across the room, only he lacked the energy. He hadn't slept. Hadn't moved. How long had he been here?

It did not matter. Time no longer had any meaning, not when every day was interminably the same. The days and nights ran together, each as hopeless as the last. They all began and ended in darkness. He gazed blankly at the floor, trying to summon some of the fire, the heat and passion that had briefly allowed to feel human again, but there was only this misery and despair. Months of pain (moments of ecstasy).

_Was this what you wanted? Was it worth it?_

He couldn't see her again. Not ever. He did not know himself around her. He could not risk something like this happening again. For her sake he could not.

Why had she let him? She couldn't love him, not when he didn't even love himself. No one could love a shell, a _thing. _Why didn't she push him away?

No, he could not blame her. She was entirely innocent in all this. It was him. Everything, all of this, it was him.

He had been the one to kiss her. But it had started… before that. He had watched her in the Kasbah with an awakened awareness, he realised that now. Had he known? Had he known all along that it would come to this? And if he had, why didn't he stop it?

Why did _she _have to be the one to make him feel again? It could have been anyone. It _should _have been anyone -

He halted that thought in horror. What was he thinking? It should have been _no one. _He should never, _never _have betrayed Christine. Not for anything in this world. Raoul was no stranger to a woman's flesh. Not with an older brother who had shown him all sides of society. But since Christine had come back into his life he had never been with anyone else, never _wanted _anyone else.

_Even Erik remained faithful._

And now - now he was… _worse. _Worse than Erik, who had once been a symbol of everything he hated, everything cruel and wicked and wrong in this world…

And he was worse.

Even in hating Erik, it was only his own self that he was hating. What he had done was despicable. He wanted to go back twenty-four hours. No, he wanted to go back months, years -

This present existence was killing him. If only he could lose all feeling, or at least, all memory of the past.

But the past would not let him go. Memories of Paris tore through him with brutal intensity. Eyes alight with love, alight with longing _(there is nothing more I want than to be with you for ever and ever) _Clasped hands, soft dark hair falling over his neck _(do you remember, my love? Do you remember Perros?) _Winter to summer to winter again. When Meg Giry had been little more than a barely-remembered name. Because nothing, nothing compared to Christine. Nothing ever would.

He could recall it still, the pure, heartfelt adoration that was once so uncomplicated. Beginning along a wild and pounding shoreline and ending on a frozen terrace crowned with snow. A tragedy he could never forget. The clear sweetness in her soft voice, the spiritual face, lily-pale delicacy of her skin. He would think of her every day for the rest of his life. Oh, how he loved her.

And how he had lost her.

_If I cannot be who I was, then let me no longer remember it._

Those thoughts that had once been his lifeline were now his torment. He no longer wanted to think or feel, no longer _needed _it if his life had narrowed down to cold, empty duty and a dull resignation to see the thing through to the end. It was all that was left to him now. No passion inflamed him, no conviction enlightened him. He was doing this merely because there was nothing else left for him. Paris was a shadow to him now. He had no ties, no friends, no love. Nameless. Anonymous. There was nothing left. Meg had been the last thing, and he had ruined that, too. He had destroyed himself, and if he gave up the search now, it would have all been for nothing. All the pain, and the loathing, and the emptiness would have been for no reason. To find Christine was all he had left tying him to this shadow of existence. And after that -

He paused. The idea that he even had a future was completely unthinkable to him.

_I just want it over with._

He was tired. Tired of fighting, tired of drifting, tired of this _nothing _he'd had inside him for months and months. He wanted sweet rain and opening clouds and greenery. Instead, he saw scorched metal, perspiring heat. Incense drugging him into madness. Long, endless nights.

Even if died, no hell could be worse than what he was living now. The world was so much more painful than he could ever have imagined. Yet he could not bring himself to end his suffering.

God, how had it come to this?

His world had once been bright and colourful, and now he saw nothing but swirling grey emptiness. He was walking through grey space. He looked at it through hollow eyes. None of it touched him (except _her_). He was slowly dying inside.

There was nothing left to lose in this bitter half-life.

He knew what he had to do.

* * *

Madame Giry sat nursing a cup of steaming coffee, the beverage almost too black and bitter to swallow. The sinuous curls of steam rose in the dust-slanting air, the pungent aroma going some way to sharpening her mind that felt unnaturally drowsy. It was this heat. A hot, bleached afternoon. Too heavy. Stifling. She was wearing far too many layers of clothing, but nothing would have induced her to divest of any of the prudish trappings of hoops and underskirts and petticoats and bodices and shawls that were so cumbersome in this climate, so unsuitable. But Antoinette was nothing if not traditional and orderly in her appearance. Not even a hurricane would have shifted loose any of the grey hair from its savagely twisted knot, thrust in place by two chopstick hairpins. Her worn hands curled around the bone china handle of her cup, the Blue Italian design faded to almost white. She inhaled the fumes of caffeine as though they could be absorbed by osmosis.

She refused to obey her body's instinct to slouch down in her seat, not only due to years as a ballet mistress routinely positioning her spine to rigid straightness, but also because the Persian was seated across from her with a collected grace that it seemed only courteous to emulate. He was dressed in lavish peacock blue robes; dark eyes and skin standing out in startling contrast. Unlike the rest of them, he could blend in easily with the crowds here, no matter how garishly he dressed. His opulent garments were the most vivid thing in the shadowy vagueness of the sepia-toned room; she found it hard to look at anything else. She could smell the faint scent of expensive pipe tobacco, sweet and cloying as it clung to his robes. It was the smell of opium. Of oblivion.

They had returned late last night; so late that the sky had already been turning to striated brass by the time she had climbed the stairs quietly so as not to wake her daughter. Meg had not moved since she had left, still sleeping peacefully in her bed, through looking a trifle flushed and fevered. She had smoothed the tousled hair from the hot forehead with tender fingers, gazing down at the girl with silent concern. Sleep had not come easily to her that night.

Madame Giry sighed. Meg, something else that had given her cause to worry, when it seemed all she did was worry these days. The girl had been distant and evasive lately - not like her at all. Neither was it like her to be shut in her room for hours on end. And the amount of time she was spending with the Vicomte… doubt gnawed at her, uneasy fears that she would not consciously express. No good would come of it, of that Antoinette was certain. Perhaps it was time she had another conversation with her wilful daughter.

Nadir poured himself a drink from an engraved silver hipflask he pulled from the voluminous silken depths of his robes. Madame Giry's thin grey brows raised a fraction.

"Drinking during the day was a matter of course in Persia," he said calmly and without a trace of embarrassment.

The normally straight-laced Madame Giry then did something she never would have contemplated had her daughter been in the room - she slid her barely touched cup of coffee across the table, which Nadir obligingly enriched with a splash of whiskey. He handed the cup back to her without comment.

"This is not something I do often, Monsieur," she said sternly.

An uncommon smile softened Nadir's face. His dark eyes filled with warmth and suddenly it was easy to see what he must have looked like twenty years ago; young and strong and handsome, not old and frail and broken. "Your secret is safe with me."

She took a sip through pursed lips and did not return the smile.

"How long have you been awake?" she asked, more for something to say than out of any real sense of curiosity.

"Since early this morning. I walked about the market." He paused. "You do know she's not here, don't you?"

Antoinette stared at him for some moments. Then, "Yes, I know," she said finally.

"We would have heard something by now. It's evident that Erik has left Mustapha, maybe even Alger. I should have guessed before this. He never stays in one place long."

"Never used to, perhaps."

The Persian acknowledged that with a rueful nod. He spread his arms along the sides of his chair, long-lashed eyes regarding her thoughtfully.

"And the Vicomte? Does _he _know?"

Antoinette frowned. "I don't know what goes on in that man's mind. And I haven't seen him since yesterday. He's normally awake before any of us."

"It _is _rather worrying."

She made a reluctant motion to stir herself. "I should see if he is alright."

"Allow me."

Madame Giry nodded with uncommon acquiescence, lacking the energy to argue the point. Perhaps the Persian's serene temperament was more suited to dealing with the Vicomte than her own acerbic spirit.

She closed her eyes once he left, feeling the heat of the afternoon sun on her face. It would be easy to do nothing but sleep in a place like this. Sleep, and wake, and search, then sleep again. The days long and white-hot, without variation. How long had it been now? She shifted uneasily. The chair was hard and uncomfortable, though Antoinette was not one to complain of physical discomfort.

She looked down at her clenched hands, smudged faintly with dirt. The dist was infernal in this place. The sooner they left, the better. And not just this boarding house. The sooner they left Alger.

She was tired, she realised. Tired in_ herself_. They all were, that was the truth of it, though none of them had said it aloud. The chances of ever finding Christine were becoming slimmer and slimmer with each day that passed. Her daughter was wasting her life on this mad pursuit and the fault of it was hers. Soon, she would have to decide what to do. She thought of Madame Valerius' imploring face and the consumptive brightness in those beautiful blue eyes. Fragile lace-netted hands closing around hers in a trembling grip. _I know that you will take care of her, Madame, raise her as though she were your own. I trust that you will keep her safe. _That was the last time Madame Giry ever saw her. Two weeks later Madame Valerius was dead. And every day since Antoinette had felt the burden of that last appeal.

To whom did she owe the most loyalty? How much more time could she invest in trying to honour the promise made to a dead woman? Yet how could she abandon the girl she loved as a daughter?

In her heart, though, she knew what she had to do. But still she pushed away the treacherous thought with both hands, dreading what it might mean for Christine. For Meg. For herself.

She never used to be like this, so riddled with doubt and uncertainty. But ever since Christine had disappeared _(taken? kidnapped?) _it was as though every piece of Antoinette's ordered existence had gone too. It had left her in the company of a man she did know, another man she did not trust and a daughter she was losing.

She had it in her power to put an end to this. And in that moment Madame Giry resolved that things would change.

Even if they never forgave her for it.

The door opened, disturbing the air, a dry mirage-shimmer of heat. Light streamed in from the hall, the rattle of carts returning from the market audible through the narrow walls. The Persian entered the room - alone. Madame Giry looked at his grave, solemn face, the dark eyes troubled within the aged creases. She sat up a little straighter.

"Is something the matter?"

"Yes," he said slowly. "Yes, I rather think there is."

* * *

…_Amber and soft shadows, no sound in this hot, moist tangle of hands and limbs. Dimly she registered that the surface beneath her back was hard… she was lying on the floor, the wood scraping her bare skin… but impossible to care about that now, not when the warm weight of his body was positioned over her, his tongue trailing across the perspiration between her breasts… she twisted her head to one side, biting down hard on swollen lips to suppress a moan. Her torso arched shamelessly into his, demanding more, and a violent shudder passed through her as his fingers danced along the path of her inner thighs, and she could have sworn she heard him laugh quietly._

_Bronze-hued skin, coppery hair brushing her collarbone as his head bent over her. His lips moved over her arched throat, the exhalation of breath sweet and burning against the flushed skin. His searing blue eyes, clouded with passion, softened slightly as he looked down at her with a heavy-lidded gaze._

"_Am I hurting you?"_

"_Not anymore," she gasped, truthfully. Not now, on the second (third?) time -_

_She shifted beneath him impatiently. Her hot palms were pressing against the tensed muscles of his shoulders, moving down the curve of his back that was damp with sweat, pulling him more deeply into her. She felt his body shudder as he moved over her. All sense of reality distorted when he dragged his hips roughly against hers. She drew an unsteady breath, inhaling the masculine scent of warm skin and musk and spices, the closeness of him rendering her half-delirious, yet still she wanted more -_

_His hands curved around her slender waist, fingers digging almost painfully into her ribs as he raised her body to meet his with a strength that should have frightened her, but it merely caused a rush of exhilaration to flood through her veins. The mad, frenetic pounding of his heart against her naked chest as he grappled her closer still, his burnished head buried in the curve of her neck, sampling the willingly proffered flesh. Her head fell back, sweat-streaked hair entwining with his. His breathing was harsh, the words smothered heat against her burning skin. _

"_What have you done to me?" he whispered hoarsely._

_She could have asked him the same thing, but each brutal, demanding thrust of his body robbed the breath from her, driving her back against the hard floor. Never slowing, never losing the rhythm, he stole delicious, melting kisses from her parted lips as wild convulsions shook her lower body. She felt her eyes roll back at the searing exquisiteness of sensation and he groaned his pleasure in her ear -_

Meg's eyes opened slowly. Her blonde hair was a disordered mess over her shoulders, long strands clinging to the damp skin that - she glanced downward - were those… _bruises?_ Hot colour flooded her cheeks and her shaking fingers tugged at her chemise, pulling it more tightly against her body. The bed covers were twined around her sweating limbs that were still slightly sore from - from -

Oh, what had she _done?_

The fact that she was entirely alert and clear-headed meant that she could not blame the whiskey she had drunk last night, either. And she could not deny the delicious languor that coursed through her body, nor the searing memory of exquisite _sensation _burned indelibly into her sated flesh_,_ proof that last night really had happened and was not merely the fragments of some wild, scandalous dream.

_How _had it happened? And to her, of all people? She was always so rational, so in control. She had always scorned the girls that threw themselves into salacious affairs and became perfect slaves to men who were merely using them as temporary playthings. She had always kept her small, satin-clad toes on the right side of propriety, never going further than coquettish smiles and idle flirtations, extravagant presents received from amorous noblemen and saccharine kisses stolen in the perfumed, clamorous bustle between rehearsals. It was something light hearted and fun, a frivolous diversion that might one day result in marriage if the man was handsome and the purse filled enough. She had never let anyone glimpse past the whale-boned corsets and powder and fine lace that neatly imprisoned her dancer's body. Who would have thought, who would have _imagined _that it could all be stripped away so easily?

Who knew that beneath the fluttering fans and beribboned bodices and coy glances that there lurked these hidden desires and the propensity to sensual madness - she had not known it herself. Yet inside, there lingered that core of passion that no amount of culture or convention could ever hope to eradicate. She had welcomed every touch, the slide of his rough hands over her willing flesh, wringing every desperate cry from her tensing and releasing body… oh, how _could _she?

Yet she knew, if faced with the same choice, she would do it all over again. Here for the first time was a man she could not bully, beguile, or bend to her will. It was intoxicating, a mad thrill she had never known, a dark and primitive feeling that had made her succumb to those hands and lips, the forceful movement of his body over hers_._ She had let him do whatever he wanted with her and she had relished every moment of it.

Oh, how could she look at him after this?

But he had kissed _her. _He had been the one to… to… _he _had crossed that line, broken down the boundaries of respectability and decency… yet she hadn't stopped him. No, she had urged him on and demanded that he do more. She had gasped, moaned, begged, pleaded shamelessly. She had cried out her surrender to the night with such intensity that it frightened her. Overwhelmed by the rush of emotion, barely moments had passed after he collapsed exhausted beside her when she had fled to her room. And now, she, who was always so sure of herself, was conflicted with doubts.

Had it meant anything to him? His avowal of how much she mattered to him? What did he really think of her? Had it been merely a way for him to burn out his frenzied lust? Or something more?

_He desires you, _she told herself harshly. _That is all. He certainly isn't the first man to, and he won't be the last._

Meg knew she was a pretty girl - looking glasses and men were a simple enough affirmation of that fact. She had revelled in being the popular belle of the Opera House, the admiring envy of the ballet rats, the pampered darling of the old hands and the object of desire to the rich noblemen that passed through its walls. For was she not the most merry, the most daring of them all? She enjoyed the attention - of course she did - but she, Madame Giry's daughter, had always been too practical and sensible to allow herself to get into a situation that could become… complicated. Well, the girls at the Opera House would laugh if they knew. Her actions went against every respectable lesson that had been instilled in her. Even in the blurring, ever-changing masquerade that passed for life in the Opera Poplaire, she had never once been tempted to abandon herself to the hedonistic temptations that lured so many other ballet rats to earn themselves unsavoury reputations. And now -

_Of all the stupid, heedless things you have done, Meg Giry, this is the worst._

Why oh _why _had she been so foolish?

She had been a silly, sentimental fool. Such a thing would not happen again. For Christine's sake, it must not.

At the thought of Christine, the awful, constricting feeling in her chest intensified. Meg knew that what she had done was terrible, and something she never would have suspected of herself before last night. And deep down, in the depths of her fierce, loyal heart, she knew that Christine was a far better person than she was, and that just made it all the worse.

Christine… sweet, solemn Christine who was far too good for this world. Her dearest friend. Christine, who would probably think her some brazen little harlot, even if she was too kind to ever say the words aloud. The one person that Meg truly and honestly admired and she betrayed her in the worst way possible. She had perhaps irrevocably ruined a friendship that, since girlhood, had never once been tarnished by any cruel words or petty jealousies. She inwardly groaned and pressed her hands against her brow.

What had she been _thinking?_

And the worst of it was that she did not feel as guilty as she should. When had she become so selfish? _I was always selfish. Only I never had cause to think of Christine as a rival before now._

Well, it was done now. There was no use in berating herself over the fact.

With a sigh, Meg slid out of her bed, shielding her eyes from the brutal, glancing sun. The rays were low, however… was it late afternoon already? Tempting as it was to remain in her room, she could not hide up here forever. She had to face him eventually and she would not have him think her some coward.

Would he be angry? Would he be distant? Or would he look at her as he had _then, _with desire flaring in his eyes and raw need in his voice?

She dressed with absent hands and a mind elsewhere. She did, however, pause to take in her appearance in the tarnished mirror that hung over her bed. Her hair clung damply to her neck, the colour running high in her cheeks. Meg peered closer. And her eyes… heavy, dark, languid… dear God, the evidence of last night was written all over her face.

With a silver-backed brush, she savagely combed her tangled hair until it felt soft as raw silk, and splashed water over her heated face. She pulled a gauzy shawl over her shoulders, certain that any telltale marks on her skin would not escape her mother's sharp scrutiny. The rest of her was daintily concealed beneath a satin bodice and lace-flounced petticoats, though it seemed a little late for such shows of propriety now.

She clattered down the stairs with perhaps more noise than necessary. Her heart was pounding madly. This was ridiculous! She would _not _act like some blushing ingénue, no matter what had passed between them. Swallowing hard and lifting her chin resolutely, she pushed the door open and walked in.

She didn't know whether she was relieved or disappointed to see only her mother and Nadir within, conversing in low voices, their heads bent close together. Both immediately fell silent as Meg entered.

Her mother looked up, sharp grey eyes examining her face with an unsettlingly penetrating look. "What's the matter?"

Meg avoided her gaze, scuffing a foot against the dusty floorboards. "Nothing."

"You slept half the day away."

"I was tired."

Madame Giry's eyes narrowed as she looked closer. "You look… are you sure you're not falling sick?"

"I'm not sick."

There was no reply. Meg then registered the stagnant silence coating the air, the heightened, heavy stillness. Her heart thudded. Something had happened. She stared at her mother's impassive features, fearing... fearing _something_.

"What's wrong?"

It was Nadir who stood up, Nadir who walked across the stretch of room and held out his large hand towards her.

"You should look at this."

Startled, Meg took the small scrap of paper from him and unfolded it. Wordlessly, she looked down and read,

_Do not try to find me. If you see me again, it will be with Christine. If you do not, it is because I am dead._

_Tell Meg that I am sorry._

The paper curled up in her clenched fist.

"When did you find this?" Her voice was very quiet.

"Not half an hour ago."

"Then why are you still here?" She immediately whirled round in the direction of the half-opened door. "He cannot have had that much of a start, if we split up -"

Her voice trailed off as both Nadir and her mother remained unmoving.

"Why are you standing there?" She looked slowly from one to the other. "What is this?"

"Marguerite." Her mother's tone was pure steel. "Sit down."

After a moment of hesitation, she dropped into a chair, looking mutinous.

"Listen to me, Meg. This is… not what any of us were expecting. But try to understand it may also be an opportunity… It has been months now. And for all we know, we are still no closer to finding Christine…"

Nadir jumped at the violent crash that reverberated through the room like a crack of thunder. Meg had started to her feet, the abrupt motion knocking her chair to the floor. A cloud of dust skirled upward in the hazy afternoon light. It was evident she had understood the inference of her mother's words.

"You want to go," she said in a shaking voice. "You want to leave him - leave _here _- and go back to - to -"

Nadir realised he was intruding on what should have been a private scene, but Madame Giry was standing in front of the door; any chance of his discreetly leaving the room was an impossibility. He could only watch silently as Meg shook her head wildly, agitation visible in her bright eyes and the trembling set of her mouth.

Antoinette spoke with calm deliberation. "I am only doing what I believe is best."

"Best for _you, _maybe," the girl muttered petulantly.

"Best for both of us. This is a _chance _- a chance to have our lives back."

"And what about Christine's life?" demanded the girl, clearly not prepared to listen to reason.

"Meg," she said quietly. "You may have to realise… you may have to accept the possibility that you will not see Christine -"

"That's all you have to say?" Her voice rose, her chest heaving with passion and frustration. "You raise her for nearly ten years then just abandon her?"

Madame Giry's grey eyes flashed dangerously. "Do not act like this is an easy decision for me."

"Then don't make it!" Meg moved towards her entreatingly, her voice softening. "Maman, please… I don't want to fight."

The woman's hard expression did not falter. She faced her daughter, rigid, unmoving. "This is not a discussion, Marguerite. I have made up my mind."

"Since half an hour ago?"

"You knew that this arrangement could not be permanent."

The girl gave a bitter, strangled laugh and tried another tactic. "I thought you didn't trust Raoul. And now you're prepared to leave him here - _alone_ - and hope for the best?"

"He will not be the only one. Monsieur Khan has said he is willing to stay in the meantime." Antoinette turned to him as she spoke, and he glimpsed a rare flash of pleading in her eyes.

"I am," Nadir said. _Because I have to believe… believe that a part of Erik's humanity remains. And if it does not… then at least I will know. _This need to _know, _this constant wondering was ever with him, like a carved etching beneath his skin.

Antoinette nodded, relieved, but did not inquire any further. He had not expected her to. It was always the same. Living in this uneasy proximity, this close distance. Neither Madame Giry nor her daughter truly understood him, but he had become accustomed to solitude. Nadir almost smiled at the irony of it. _I was once Erik's only friend. And now he is mine._

"We could be in Paris in a matter of weeks," she continued fervently. "If we made arrangements, saw to it that out finances could adequately ensure our departure…"

Meg continued to look blankly at her, as though she were speaking in another language. Her mother's expression hardened.

"You knew it would come to this eventually, Marguerite."

But her daughter was shaking her head. "I can't…" she said slowly. "I can't listen to this…"

Antoinette stepped forward. "Meg -"

But she had already pushed past her mother and fled the room.

The silence her departure left was stifling. Even the clamouring noise outside had ceased. Nadir chanced a look at Madame Giry through lowered eyes. She seemed to have aged a decade in the space of minutes. Perhaps he should have gone up to her, laid a comforting hand on her shoulder, but something in her stark face and tense, unmoving frame stopped him. She spoke without looking at him.

"Thank you," she said tersely. "For saying you would stay."

"I always intended to. I feel… Erik's welfare has always been something of a responsibility for me."

He never said so, but it was more than that. The tragic reality was, he had nowhere else to go. Paris had never been home. Not like Persia.

Perhaps it was the heat, the scorching atmosphere that brought back the long familiarity of it, but he dreamed of Persia almost constantly now. He dreamed it as it once was, too bright, too vivid, people and colours and places that no longer existed except in his own memory. Through a drugged haze of opium and blood, Erik had been at the centre of it all, a mad magician who held power over life and death, yet could not save his son. He dreamed of Reza laughing and holding out his hands. He dreamed of Reza contorted with agony while his mother tried to hold back her sobs. He dreamed of the Khanum, her eyes alight with love and rage and insanity. Palaces and smoke and mirrors. Incense and lush, tropical gardens, and beneath, the sweet decaying smell of death. It was paradise, and it was poison.

And he missed it with all his heart.

* * *

She must have been mad to come here.

But then none of her decisions could exactly be called _responsible _as of late.

Her mother would be furious if she knew she was here, but she didn't want to think about her mother now, though it increased the sense of urgency that filled her. Almost impossible to see clearly through the haze of incense burners, the opaque smoke spiralling upwards to the row of lanterns swaying along the canvassed ceiling. She could taste the spices at the back of her throat. Rugs lay across the ground. Night music beating in her ears. A frenetic, rhythmical jingle. Heavy, seductive, delirious. The heat of closely-packed bodies pressed around her. Glimpses of bare flesh were visible through the curling air. Meg moved further into the darkening depths of the plush tent that enclosed her in a murky labyrinth.

This was where it had begun. His lingering looks, the fleeting touches… oh, she should have known, then. Perhaps she had. And she did nothing to stop it.

Clouds of sand, swirling from the motion of light, dancing feet. The movement of lissom waists, slender arms curving. The sweep of perfumed hair black as oil, tanned skin, and gold, gold, gold. Coins passed from hand to hand. Meg ignored the wanton gazes of inky eyes that slid over her like water. Grasping hands were easily eluded.

He must be far away by now. Probably already set off down one of those straight and dusty roads that led to… wherever they led. He would never have come here.

_But then, where better to hide than in the midst of so many people?_

Her quick, dark eyes scanned the masses of people, searching, searching… the faces were barely discernable through the shadows of falling hoods, the veils of the women who were not performing. Hazy eyes, clouded with opium, stared through her vaguely. She pushed her way past the glittering veils, the intricately designed canvas flaps. She ducked beneath a line of swinging lamps and emerged in the cloying nocturnal heat of a back alley.

The scorched skyline was barely visible in the confined space. The closeness of the heavy canvas slanting across the low rooftops made her breath catch in the thick, incense-laden air. Her mind spun. The dark crept into the narrow spaces. She made her way cautiously through the narrow alley, her small feet in their light slippers barely making a sound against the soft, densely packed earth -

Meg paused.

The hairs on the back of her neck were prickling nervously. The tent flap rustled softly. Faintly, she could hear the clatter of kettledrums drifting out from the canvassed interior, the muffled shouts. Yet she was _sure…_ Her small shoulders stiffened. A dry, rasping wind whispered through the alley; the veils fluttered madly and set off the discordant jangling of tiny bells -

"If you're expecting a proposal…" The low drawl made her jump. "I'm sorry to disappoint you."

He emerged slowly from the shadows. Her pulsing heart seemed to leap against her chest. His face was as impassive as a gold Venetian mask, though the eyes were a brilliant, burning blue. He was watching her without amusement. A shiver of apprehension and something else _(desire) _rippled down her spine. It took a moment for her to react to the shock of his words.

"What?" Her voice came out far less steady than she would have liked.

The atmosphere hung around them in heavy, burning veils. She fought the unreasonable urge to back away as he prowled towards her. There was something _raw _in his stance, alert and powerful and intimidating. The shirt hung loosely from his tanned shoulders, burnished hair barely held back by the leather thong. It was hard to believe she had once seen him in nothing but finery; ruffled shirts and velvet waistcoats and silken cravats that had all sat so well on his lean figure with its former ease and light grace. But now he seemed like some tantalising stranger _(though he stopped being a stranger last night) -_

Meg shuddered at the memories that evoked. The caress of warm fingers. Panting breaths. Arcane desire.

"I've ruined your reputation." Raoul continued to stare at her unnervingly. "The honourable thing to do would be to marry you. I'm sure even a place like this would have some barbaric mummery of a wedding ceremony. But then… something tells me you didn't come here for that. So why _are _you here?"

Those few moments were all it took to recover herself. Meg summoned a breath; forced an arch smile to her lips. The old, coquettish dip of the head, the delicate gold brows raised just _so… _yes, this was more like the Meg Giry of the Opera Populaire. She knew he saw it too, the rapid, startled glance he threw her almost made her laugh. Hand curving around her hip, the light material of her dress pulled tight against her waist.

"A little foolish, wasn't it? Coming here of all places? Unless, of course, you _wanted _to be found."

"Not as foolish as you following me."

"You knew I would."

His eyes were burning in the dim light. "I thought you would know better."

Closer still. She hated _(loved) _the way he towered over her, eclipsing her diminutive height with no effort on his part. If she reached out, she would be touching his chest. The sweating air was suffocating. She inhaled sharply. His scent. Dark and bitter and dangerous.

Meg realised she was trembling. Let him think it was from anger… he couldn't know it was from longing. But she was not about to lose her nerve. She rested a hand against the wall to steady herself, bracing her slim body. She could feel heat radiating from the tightly-pressed clay, the dust caught in the folds of heavy fabric. Light skirts fluttered around her legs that were slightly apart, white slippers reddened with dirt. Her shoulders arching forward like an aggressive cat.

"Listen to me," she said insistently, "_Yes, _I followed you. Or rather, took an accurate guess at where you might be. Slipping off in the night is _not _the answer. You can't just go off alone. So whatever twisted logic you've used to persuade yourself that this is somehow a good idea…" God, she was rambling.

"I'm not going to justify my reasons to you."

She felt his exhalation against the hollow of her exposed throat. In spite of the dimly flickering shadows, she could see every minute detail of his unmoving face, the shifting of bronze light over the chiselled contours and shadows, cerulean eyes hooded by heavy lashes, his parted mouth barely a whisper from her own. It took an effort not betray herself with a shuddering sigh. But somehow she managed it.

"That's right. Because I'm just some frivolous little girl. That's what you think, isn't it?"

Raoul gave a harsh laugh. "Surely you don't believe that? Not after -" He broke off, his hard mouth pressing into a stubborn line. He wouldn't even _say _it.

She met his gaze challengingly. "Not after what, Raoul?"

"Don't -"

"Why, will I be compromising myself?" Her soft lips curved mockingly. "A little late for that, wouldn't you say?"

She _felt _his shoulders tense. Warm breath caressed her cheek as he leaned forward, every word carefully punctuated. Her body gave an involuntary tremor.

"Don't provoke me, Meg." There was a dangerous edge to his quiet voice.

"Why not?" she demanded recklessly, knowing she was riling him, but at this point she was beyond caring. There was a burning in her eyes and throat. It was a struggle to speak. "Was it really so terrible?"

Raoul looked away at that. All once his eyes were distant and remote, grey as an icy lake on a bleak winter's day, yet last night she had seen those eyes hot and blue and smouldering, blazing with passion and fire and raw hunger. "You wouldn't understand," he said heavily.

Once, she wouldn't have. Once he had been hopelessly elusive to her, a closed book. It had been part of what fascinated her about him. But now she could read him with ease, understand every dark thought that was consuming him. She had a savage urge to tear away that darkness he had buried himself, to rip it to shreds with her bare hands. What good were his useless feelings of guilt and remorse when Christine was still missing and in danger?

"I think that I do. I want to help you, but it's as though you're doing everything in your power to try and make me hate you."

"It would be better if you did."

"That's for me to decide," she snapped. _How _did he manage to rile her effortlessly?

"I'm serious. Being near me… it will destroy you. You should let me leave. Because then I wouldn't have been near you, never tried to use you as a means of –"

She held up a shaking hand in a futile attempt to stop his words but he continued regardless. "I'm telling you now - let me go."

"No," she said simply.

His gaze moved lingeringly over her slight figure. His mouth curved. "Are you going to stop me?"

Meg found herself shaking with anger. He was _laughing _at her.

"I seem to recall stopping you running headlong into danger before," she pointed out sharply. "You clearly haven't learnt anything."

"Or perhaps I could have ended it then."

"All you would have ended was our own life - though perhaps that's what you wanted."

"But of course," he returned in low voice, heavy with irony. "You see right through me, don't you Meg?"

"Only when you make stupid decisions." Fine scorn trembled around her tightly pressed lips.

"Well you would know something about that, wouldn't you?"

The words struck her like a whip lash. A consummate actress, Meg forced herself not to react, forced down the furious tears that threatened to surface. She could have slapped him for that. Anger surged white-hot adrenaline through her veins. She crossed her arms to still her livid trembling. Her voice was heavy with contempt. "This isn't about us slowing you down. You just want to wallow in yourself. Then go. Rot in hell for all I care. You're almost there anyway."

She heard his sharply indrawn breath. Whatever he had been expecting her to say, it wasn't _that._ He hesitated momentarily, watching her almost with _regret_.

"For what it's worth…" His voice was a rough-edged whisper. "I wish it did not have to end this way." His fingers brushed her cheek, fleetingly. "I truly am sorry."

Seeing she was not going to respond, he had half-turned… He was going to do it… he was really going to leave…

The words burst from her before she could prevent it.

"Raoul de Changy, you're a fool!"

Suddenly, the painful apathy fled from his body and there seemed a kind of tightly-wound energy beneath his skin that carried that subtle Algerian smell of leather and spices. Fire flashing in those blue eyes that drew her in deeper even as they sought to hold her off. Looming over her, excruciatingly close, the musky scent of his hair as it hung damply over his brow, almost brushing her upturned face. She could fee the heat of him creeping along her waist. Pressed back against the heated surface of the wall, she had lost track of what she had wanted or intended… did it even matter? Not when his partly raised hand seemed to hover on the brink of caressing her slightly parted lips… She was breathing hard, she had not realised that… There was fever and longing in his expression, but she could not think of that, for it was exactly the way he had looked at her last night, when - when -

"I thought you wanted me gone," he murmured.

"I changed my mind." The words left her in a shaky whisper.

The music and clamour of the tent had receded to a distant dream. Meg swallowed hard. Burning dryness in her throat. Like desert sands. She met his searing gaze with her customary directness.

"Just tell me one thing. Why don't you want us to help you?"

Raoul didn't answer. Neither did he move, which she took as encouragement to go on.

"You don't think you deserve it," she said bluntly. "You'd prefer to be miserable alone than confide in anyone who might actually be able to make you feel better. Well, I've seen the worst of you, Raoul. And I'm still here."

He brought a hand against the wall in frustration. "That only goes to show - how generous _you _are, and how selfish _I'm _being. There is nothing left for me - I _have _to finish this. But there's no reason to drag anyone else down with me."

"You didn't force us to come, Raoul."

"But I didn't invite you, either. This is - I have to do this alone."

Reason fled, and caution with it. She needed him, she needed him so much it made her ache. And she no longer cared if he knew it.

"You can't leave," she said choking, "Because I couldn't stand it."

"You can," he said quietly. "And you will."

Before she could react, Raoul had taken her small hands in his, his rough grip tightening with a strange urgency. Worn fingers brushed against the softness of the skin on the inside of her wrists. Her pulse. Throbbing through the clouds of incense. Beating (for him?)

She could feel the lifelines of her palms pressed against his fingers, the leap of blood beneath the caress of his thumb. He was gazing down at her tenderly and that was somehow worse than his derision… His tones were raw, filled with emotion. "You are so strong, Meg. You are fine and brave and far too good for this. You can take care of your mother and Nadir. You have a chance to return to Paris, to make something of your life -"

"To hell with Paris!" she said fiercely. "I don't care about any of that -"

"You _should _care. I'm giving you - _all _of you - a chance. To get out of this… madness, while you still can."

She shook her head, a coil of coppery hair coming loose, curving down the line of her throat, dipping into the shadowy glimpse of her cleavage. Raoul looked away, quickly. He would not do this, not again. _Though you want to._

She had pulled her hands out of his firm grasp, pressing the tips of her fingers against her mouth. Raoul stared at her uncertainly. She was… _laughing? _Through a fringe of gold lashes_, _there was a questioning look shining in the depths of those mocking eyes. "You really haven't thought about who you're leaving behind, have you?"

"Meaning what?"

"My mother and Nadir. You never even considered how much use they could have been all this time… But you don't value them - you never valued them -"

"What are you -"

"Did you realise that Nadir has a better chance of getting to Christine unnoticed than anyone? Who better than him to get through to Erik? Who better than Maman, who always treated him well? This man looks at _you_ and sees only an enemy. He looks at them and sees people he respects - maybe even likes. I wouldn't abandon them so lightly."

There was sense in her words, though he hated to admit it to himself. It just made things harder. He could not afford to be indecisive. Not in this. Even if she was probably right and perhaps he _had _overlooked them. Trust her to make him see that. Raoul exhaled in frustration, wondering again just what _hold_ she seemed to have over him.

He became almost painfully aware of how pretty she was; her upturned face expressive and vivacious in the dim, aureate light. His warm hand curled around her shoulder. The white muslin of her dress seemed to melt away to nothing beneath his fingers, burning against her skin, so soft… He could see the rapid rise and fall of her breasts beneath the restrictive corset… God, what was he _doing? _Yet he somehow could not summon up the force of will to release her.

The air was sweet, scented with dust and the burning of perfumed oils. Dark blonde strands of hair crisscrossed her face in the close heat. Raoul fought down the urge to brush away those wayward tresses gently behind her eyes. Then perhaps to trace the curve of her cheek, the slight swell of those lips…

"Meg -" His grip on her tightened involuntarily as he sought to argue against her logic, tried to convey the cold conviction that had possessed him earlier. This was for her own good. She _must _understand -

At his uttering of her name, passion leapt into her small frame, straightening her spine and setting the slender shoulders forward in an expression of stiff hostility. Damn her stubbornness, damn her infuriating persistency, damn the irresolute set of her chin as she thrust it forward, bringing the soft coral of her lips dangerously into his line of vision -

"They can help you. _We _can help you."

She lifted her gaze to his, her small face blazing. There was a wild, defiant, reckless look in those maddening brown irises that were flecked with impish hazel and amber and gold. God help him, if she kept looking at him like that…

The slim body that trembled close to his was soft and warm and fevered. Her hair a spill of molten gold over her shoulders. The very air seemed charged with her. He could still vividly recall the taste of the satin skin of her neck and breasts. Raoul's mind reeled, overcome by the tantalising urge to spin her around, sample the promising sweetness of her lips, to once again savour the sensation of her coppery thighs tightening around his waist as her back arched beneath his hands and she cried out for more -

Raoul dragged his hand away, searching for some semblance of sense, reason… What _was_ this, some hopeless infatuation borne of misery and need that had no bounds in the dull, emotionless purpose he had resigned himself to? Yet still she was here, too damned proud to back down, some cord he could not sever (had no wish to) and why _should _he when she stood before him irresolute, so persistent, so maddeningly _perfect -_

"If I left, you would follow me anyway, wouldn't you?"

She gave a bright, hard, careless laugh and the sound was almost enough to provoke him to madness.

"Don't," he said hoarsely. "Otherwise I will - I won't -"

That silky mane of hair swung forward. The scent of her surrounded him. Crazily swaying gold lights were dancing in her eyes. The air was hot and close, enveloping him completely. The entrance to the alley seemed a hundred miles away.

Raoul realised he was breathing heavily - too heavily. He suspected that with little perseverance on his part - the subtle press of a thigh against hers, the brush of fingers across the tantalisingly fine lace openings of her bodice, his lips breathing a tortured plea into her sensitive ear - that any flimsy layer of resistance would be effortlessly stripped away. In the frenzied rush of last night, it had not occurred to him the sheer pleasure that could be derived from slowly _seducing _her -

God, how he wanted her. _Why _did she have to be so damned tempting?

She was the closest thing to sanity in this world, the closest thing to madness. She saw right through him, never misunderstood him. _Never _had anyone gotten under his skin the way she did. Making him listen to her when all he wanted was to -

What _did _he want?

Escape.

Deserts and loneliness and punishing solitude (smooth arms drawing him closer, reverent kisses along his jaw line, gold hair falling down around his face). In a second, he could pull her close, brush his lips against hers, feel how perfectly she moulded into his body -

Didn't this girl realise she was going to be his undoing?

But he couldn't fight her. He could _never _fight her. She could talk him into anything. She would follow him into the depths of hell, laughing all the while. Yet she was the only one with whom he could find release from his tormented mind, burning away all thoughts of loathing and anger and darkness that threatened to consume him. Awakening his senses. She drew him, like a moth to a flame, like some unresisting Icarus. Bright flame of life. Of passion.

Circling each other, pushing, pulling. Even now she was bracing herself for a fight, he could _see _it in the set of her jaw, her body (so achingly _close_) no longer soft curves but stiffened and tense, rebellion flaring beneath those dark gold lashes.

A shuddering sigh left him. _I tried. God help me, I tried. _

_I almost left. I was so close._

Not close enough. He was stuck with her, for better or for worse. He had tried isolating himself all this time and what good had it done him? Was he really prepared to take that last step and sever himself entirely from everything?

He should. But he didn't know if he _could._

Watching him, Meg saw his inner struggle, torment and despair wrestling over what he wanted and what he thought he deserved.

That was his problem, she decided. He thought far too much. He would certainly be happier if he thought less.

But then, considering where _not _thinking had gotten them -

In distraction, she curled her clinging skirts into a moist ball between her hot palms. The proximity, the warmth of him was starting to cloud her senses. Her eyes fluttered shut. Why had she really come rushing after him? Was it for his sake, or for her own?

For a moment, a sweet, wholesome Mediterranean wind blew through the alley, dispersing the scented haze of incense and smoke. Smells of the sea, of Paris, of _home _filled her heart. She drew an unsteady breath, trembling with emotion.

"Please, Raoul," she said.

He turned to her, and his gaze was blue and clear and direct. And slowly, he nodded.

"I'll come back with you. But only because of Antoinette and Nadir."

Her entire being seemed to crumple inwards with relief. The sigh stuck in her throat as Raoul's outstretched hand caught at her arm.

"Meg," he said slowly. "About last night…"

She turned to him with a bright smile that did not reach her eyes. "I lost my head," she said simply. "It won't happen again."

She was almost certain that was true.


	30. Gethsemane

**The Mask and Mirror**

_Then Jesus came with them to a place called Gethsemane, and said to His disciples, "My soul is deeply grieved, to the point of death; remain here and keep watch with Me." And He went a little beyond them, and fell on His face and prayed, saying, "My Father, if it is possible, let this cup pass from Me; yet not as I will, but as You will."_

(Matthew, 26:36-41)

Chapter 30

The night was cold, the stark chill gradually turning his motionless body to stone. Profound silence surrounded him. Standing alone, Erik lifted his head and gazed at the sky, a vast wasteland shot through with cobalt and chased iron. The blue moon hung like a burnished coin against the curve of the heavens. White stars burned with cold fires that stung his eyes. He could see beyond the domes of the rolling hills where the land became flat, woven grasses retreating into desert blackness. He could have been the first being in a new world at the beginning of its creation.

It was still a strange and incredible thing, after so many years spent underground, to be able to look up and see the stars. It made him wonder what else he had missed during those lonely years of silent rooms and deepening shadows. The world to him had always been a place of ugliness. Even here it was harsh, and cruel, yet there was a savage and primal grandeur that moved him far beyond the opulent and lavish objects he had always surrounded himself with. He had always been a great collector of beautiful things, but always of the most secular kind, things he could see and touch and hold, things he tried to persuade himself held value. Yet deep below the earth, alone in the catacombs, his heart was dying for something warm, something sacred.

Until Christine, he had never allowed himself to truly believe in the insubstantial, those lofty ideals of hope and sacrifice and redemption that meant, even after everything, she had never faltered, never stopped believing in him.

Gazing out across the infinite distance, Erik wondered for the first time whether he too could believe in what could not be seen, have faith in someone other than himself, a faith that meant not giving, but giving up. The realisation that she was the one person that did not recoil from who he was drove him to tears. She saw him for himself, the soul, the spirit inside the body.

No sound but the twilight breeze in this strange peace. About him, all was still. Blessed quietude, a time for prayer. Reverent words filling his ebbing heart.

_God help me if this is sacrilege, but tonight I glimpsed the threshold of paradise. Overwhelmed by a love so powerful it annihilates me… with you I am nothing, and I am everything. My Laura, my Beatrice. Tonight, I saw your soul…_

Something had passed between them, something so great, so glorious that there were no words to speak it. Only that it was like nothing on this earth, yet a part of it all, fundamental enough to ensure that he was deeply, irrevocably bound to her. That bond was unbreakable, even by the farthest of distances. He was able to accept the truth easily now. Something had happened on this night that stripped away all the superficialities of his former existence, those trivial things that had once seemed important fading away the moment he had glimpsed the soul within those dark eyes, the pure, heartrending trust that devastated him with its fervency.

He closed his eyes hard, a part of him wishing away this revelation that stirred him as though from the paralysis of a dream, even as his soul strained on the brink of transcendent flight. Because this faith, this ardent belief, was an agonising double-edged sword.

For now, _now,_ he had to prove himself worthy of such trust. And he knew in his soul there was only one way in which that could be done.

Erik tried to calm himself, to will the hammering of his heart to slow, to try and ease the suffocating constriction in his lungs. Blindly, he looked up, but there was a thickness before his eyes, of mist, or tears… The darkness was like a net falling on him, and he could not see, could not think. A great paralysis seemed to have seized him.

_Oh God, Christine, what madness is this? What am I thinking? I cannot tear myself from you without severing my own being… I will not… I will not… for what meaning is there in an existence separate to yours? Every moment of my life has led me to you. Men and universes could cease to be and still I would hold on… but I am half-delirious, Christine, and do not know what I am saying -_

He could not hear himself think over the roaring of his pulse, the wild pounding of his heart almost rendering him delirious. Half-faint, he swayed, the desert tilting beneath his feet and his existence hung by a thread. The brilliant stars pulsed in the strange hush, but perhaps it was only his own mind after all -

_The spirit is willing but the flesh is weak._

He closed his eyes, inwardly fought against it. This jagged chasm he was contemplating crossing... that final complete devastation. Oh, he could not bear it. Pain struggling within him. His senses were failing -

_Only through sacrifice comes redemption._

The deep ache within him intensified. He recalled with painful clarity how clear the vivid soul within had shone even through the infinitely sad expression in her eyes.

_Let this chalice from me pass._

He inhaled the night air, the fragrant scents of earth and balsam, and felt like weeping; perhaps he did. Impossible to tell in these long hours of penitential pain. This was to be his last night. Here, at this Mount of Olives, enduring in agonised solitude the approach of the inevitable. A prisoner under the stars. _Tomorrow, they lead me out to die. _

It made him realise that God was not a cold and indifferent entity, but a man. A man who sweated drops of blood and passed Gethsemane's night in speechless agony before sacrificing himself, because he had to, because he must, because it was the right thing to do.

Erik looked up, his eyes blazing.

It made him think that perhaps he could be an angel, after all.

* * *

"_No!" _

_With a violent jerk, Christine awoke. Her eyes opened onto darkness. Night and silence reigned. The cold penetrated her bones, curled up as she was on the chaise without blanket or covering. She had fallen asleep in her dressing room. She put a shaking hand to her face and realised she had been crying. The memory of the dream still haunted her, the spectres seeming to hover close by in the darkened room. _

_She sat upright, a wraith in her white gown, dark curls a disorder over her thin shoulders. Traces of tears still burned her cheeks. More a child than a girl, and for whom the darkness held nameless fears._

_Then her body thrilled with sudden sensation, her heart pounding wildly as though it would take flight. He was here; she knew it instinctively. Her aerial, divine visitor. She ached to hear his voice, strange and holy, the exquisite notes coursing through her blood. Her senses were heightened, every part of her being alive. Light glimmered along the mirror. Shivers of impossible rapture passed through her, and she felt transfigured, light as air… she would rise… transcend… _

"_Are you here?" she whispered, rapt, trembling._

"_Of course." His mellifluous tones, once so stern and frightening, were achingly tender. Soothing her fears and chasing the demons away. She no longer sought to find a face to the voice - she had tried once, and his anger had been terrible to behold. But she had imagined it a thousand times, dreamed of the celestial lights that must pass across those lofty features. Oh, how beautiful he must be. A sigh of longing escaped her parted lips. If he only knew how she adored him. _I would renounce this world and all its joys in an instant, if I could look upon your face for just one moment…

_That beautiful, heartrending voice enveloped her softly, elevating her soul. "It is a year, dear one, since I first appeared to you."_

_She closed her eyes, lost in recollection. The echo of music and memory surrounding her. He had touched her heart and she had let him in. The most dear, precious thing in her world. In the dark, she imagined she felt the brush of gloved fingers against her tearstained cheek. "But what is this? Tears? Tell me, Christine, why are you crying?"_

_The trembling residue of fear still clung to her. A dream, but so vivid… the darkness of death and her heart trapped in the tomb, so sick with hopelessness. Christine wrapped her arms around herself and shivered. She looked up, seeking him, her angel, her comforter. Nothing but darkness greeted her eyes, yet she felt him around her, everywhere._

"_I dreamed - oh it was the sepulchre again - everything was dark, and I was so cold and alone. The gate closed behind me and I was trapped in a blackness deeper than anything I have ever known. Worse than that, I felt death all around me, creeping close and I thought I should go mad with fear. It laid its cold fingers upon me, and then I saw his face…and I _knew _him… demon, ghost, whatever it was, I knew him… and the knowing broke my heart. I have never felt anything like it. I don't understand how, but I think it was real… oh God, why I am seeing these things? What is happening to me?"_

"_Even now, Christine?" His voice was gentle. "You must know that nothing can hurt you so long as I am with you."_

"_That makes me wonder what will happen the day you decide to leave me."_

"_Never. Do you think that anything could loosen the bonds of heaven?"_

_She fell to her knees in disarray, her face upturned, white hands clasped penitently. "Promise me," she whispered. _Promise me… for I could not live without you…

"_Beloved," he said softly. "I will never leave you."_

* * *

He did not know how many hours he had been standing outside on the brink of the wilderness. Beyond, all was endless. Time hung, suspended. He seemed to be on the threshold of some other world.

"Christine." The name left his lips with reverence, a soft litany.

She was more sacred and precious than anything in this life. Her spiritual beauty was beyond compare. Anodyne to his wounds. Like a holy vision, her face rose before him with a vivid poignancy as he had seen it last; open and ardent, her eyes neither lost nor distant, but shining with sincerity and pure, unalterable conviction. Awakening within him an ache of longing. She had touched his heart. She had felt it beat.

_Christine._

Body thrilling with his pulse's leap. Lost in the memory of her voice, and those earnest words that wrenched his heart. The most painful, glorious thing he had ever heard.

_You are full of love. That is what you are, who you are. You follow your heart in everything you do, wherever it might lead you. I realise that now._

In the distance, the sky had begun to lighten. Erik turned very still, staring at the straits of light that pierced the horizon with veins of silver. Pausing and breathing in the night until his soul with filled with acute sensation.

For the first time, he was able to see himself not in the fractured, distorted mirror of his own perception, but through her clear eyes. Christine did not see, as he had imagined, one of the damned, a man destroyed by hatred and beyond all hope of recall, but instead a man filled with love. Pure, unconditional love… That was what had given him the strength to let Christine go, to feel remorse for his sins and strive to become the man she believed him to be.

Understanding surged over him like a great wave; the martyred passion as he released Christine from the cellars of the Opera, Nadir gripping his arm and telling him he had done the right thing, his piercing agony after the murder in the market-place and disbelieving hope at Christine's conviction in his redemption.

As though a veil were lifted from his eyes, he felt he had entered the first day of a new life, casting off all the accoutrements of his former existence. He breathed, breathed until his lungs ached and the darkness blurred in a sea of tears. His heart throbbing so violently he thought it would shatter. All his iron-wrought defences, every glance of lashing scorn, the proud irony and cruel disdain, had been stripped away, leaving only the core of himself. Something infinitely minute, and at the same time, profoundly great.

He had discovered his true nature. Not a broken, irredeemable murderer, but an intensely feeling man, blinded by the very love he was full of, the means to his salvation.

Erik realised, with some surprise, that he was crying. He did not know if it was from happiness or sorrow or longing. He could not pierce that painful confusion of thoughts and did not wish to try. It was easier to remain as he was and look upon the landscape that opened out before him.

His vision felt heightened as he became aware of his surroundings with a startling and painful clarity. It seemed he was truly seeing for the first time, the images seared onto his eyes: each individual blade of grass at his feet, the scant bushes silvery and grey, the vivid outline of a coiled tree that was a deeper black than the desert, the pale light steeling along the ridge of the hill. Beyond, a void, annihilation.

He could see the thin bough of the distant tree bending over slightly, and knew the wind had picked up. An ambrosial breeze faintly stirring the silvered grasses at his feet. It tasted of bitter spruce, balsam and tears.

_I am mad, _he thought. _To do what I am thinking of doing, I must be mad. I cannot stand to leave her; it is the worst punishment I could imagine for myself, doing this without her -_

To be alone again – the one thing he had fought against his whole life, the thing he had inwardly raged against with all his being – to resign himself to that was worse than death. That despairing, consuming isolation that cursed him to stand estranged to the whole world. He could not be more lonely. Friendless for thirty-seven years; no soul would mourn his passing, no tears would fall at his death. He had tried to express it to Christine once, to convey what it was to have that primitive hollow space beneath his ribs that nothing could ever touch.

_Do you ever have the sense that you're completely alone in the world? That no one else thinks or speaks the way you do, and if anyone knew how you really felt – they'd dismiss you as mad?_

_All the time, _she had said.

He had not believed her, then. It was unthinkable that someone who had so many ties to the world could ever comprehend what it was to be truly alone. But now – tonight – that last barrier had been swept away; he had seen beyond the dreamlike, naïve and melancholy girl the world saw, and into the bleak emptiness that was always beneath, the source of that inward misery that never left her. Everyone was alone.

But with the Vicomte, she could be less so. Raoul could give her far more than he could. Erik knew he had too many demons, too many burdens to expect Christine to bear. It would shatter her. Leave her hurt, bruised and destroyed. He had wronged her so many times, so many different ways. She deserved more. She would live, and love with all the strength in her generous heart.

_He loves you, as much as I have hated you… but _my _love… _his _is like the pale flicker of a candle in the face of a raging inferno. _Without her, he was a force of destruction raging unchecked, wild and unstoppable, fuelled by hatred and anger that hell itself would tremble at. But with her - oh _with _her - he could aspire to divinity. But now he must do so alone. In hopeless solitude he must fall to his knees until they were bloody and raw, pray for strength, pray for forgiveness until his sins were a shade less black. Her name a holy beatitude, on his lips a thousand nights, _yet soon only to be a memory -_

He had let her go before and it had almost killed him… he had felt like death, a great devastation fallen upon him that rendered him wild with despair… _oh God, Christine, I cannot, cannot do this! And yet I must._

In the end, she meant more to him than anything else in the world. He would break the chains that bound her to him and release her.

_I never thought I could love anyone like this._

And he must leave her. Face the wilds of the world alone as though these past weeks and months were nothing but a dream. A wound that would never heal. Erik steeled himself, staring out across the trackless plain. This was the verge of the world. Where was there left for him to go?

He should have been writhing in tormented madness. But he was not. Inside, he felt an incredible stillness. He had come to terms with what he had to do, and was at a curious peace with it. There was nothing to fear.

He had never truly understood what it meant before, this healing through atonement. Perhaps this was what he had been seeking for so long. That final calm certainty, a sense of oneness that had power enough to drive all grief away. Drawing solace and strength from pain.

This would be his dream tonight. Heaven, with its soul's release and glorious spheres and bliss eternal. And all hatred and agony and darkness receded.

Tomorrow, the shadows, the storm clouds, would roll over him once more. The world with all its pains and acute sufferings would return in the ecstasy of misery. But tonight –

Tonight –

Gazing on the piercing light between heaven and earth, the deep division that rent the universe in two, Erik realised he had found something possibly more precious than love.

He had found his redemption.

* * *

A pale sun had risen over the villa garden, its soft rays stealing along the scorched grasses and stone paths. Erik's wearied eyes followed the patterned trail of burning gold that soon became lost in the scrubland and overhanging shadows of the rough-hewn stone wall. His hands were pressed against his fevered temples, feeling the pulse beating against his calloused fingers. At some point in the early hours he had found his way to this bench, thrown himself down into it, and remained unmoving as though recovering from some great shock or injury. He could only wait as the sun climbed higher and the sweet, agonising joy of Christine beside him last night drew further and further away.

When he was finally able to raise his head, his heart failed within him at the sight of Christine as she rounded the corner of the house, picking her way lightly across the pebbled walkway. She smiled as she caught sight of him, her sweetness undisguised. Her heartrending loveliness was too much for him to bear. It seemed he was facing innocence in its purest form. The image of her, dark hair curling around her beloved face and her eyes alight with such sincere and honest trust was almost enough to make him abandon his resolve. It was too hard. He wasn't strong. Not strong enough for this.

"You're awake early," she said, as she drew close beside him. Dear God, she looked so content, so serene. He could not do this.

_I must do this._

He looked away, hardening his heart. When he spoke, his voice came out brusque and sharp.

"I did not sleep."

Erik knew she was wondering if he meant to say anything else, but he could not bring himself to speak. There was nothing he could say. And if he opened his mouth, the force of misery that had been tearing at the inside of his throat would be released. So he remained silent.

"Erik," she said uncertainly, eyes searching his intently. "You look… what's wrong?"

"There is something…" His voice was hoarse. "Something I must tell you. Sit down, Christine."

Unthinking, she fell into the seat at his side, regarding him with a mixture of curiosity and compassion. "Erik?" she said. "What is this?"

_Oh, let me die, _he thought. How much harder this was when she cared. His lowered, furious gaze was fixed on his hands, shaking as they were clenched tightly against his knees.

"You must do one thing for me."

"Name it." Her voice was gentle.

"Do not say anything. Not a word. Not until -" He broke off, reaching out for her, hands warm with the throb of his heart.

Christine stared. His normally coiffed hair was disordered and wild, dark eyes staring too intensely through the hollowed porcelain eyelets. His desperate hold on her pulsing and warm. The expression on his partly exposed face stopped her heart. It filled her with fear. Something was terribly wrong.

"I cannot do this any longer," he muttered. "I thought I could. I thought that if I wanted it enough, that maybe you could see past _this_… past _me _and everything I ever did_ -_"

"I do, Erik." Her heart began beating hard. "I do see it -"

"No." He sounded weary, resigned. But beneath that, she saw how tense he was, his heavy frame strained to breaking point. The tendons standing out visibly on his neck. She could see the pulse in his throat. Beating. "You try, harder than anyone else ever has, more than I deserved… but it's not enough. Not for me. I thought it was, but I was wrong. I've been very wrong." He put out a shaking hand and gripped the metallic arm of the bench. "I tried to let you go. I tried to let you go before, but I couldn't. And it was easier, telling myself that I was weak and corrupt, if it meant keeping you with me. And then you _wanted_ to help me, which should have made things easier. But it has only made me realise how much I don't deserve it -"

"Erik -"

"_Don't_, Christine." He shuddered violently against her. Close enough that she could feel the convulsing beat of his heart. It hurt. "If I don't speak now, I'll never find the strength to do it again. And I must. God, I thought I'd learned everything there was to know about myself, but then last night, you told me that I loved, and I believed you. And it made me realise that I can now do what I could not do last winter. Do you understand what I am telling you, Christine? What this means? I'm letting you go."

The silence between them was absolute.

"What?" Christine finally whispered. In her lap, her hands began to tremble. "No… Erik, you… you cannot be serious?"

"Is it so hard to believe?" he demanded bitterly.

He did not say anything else. He did not need to. She read the answer in his terrible face.

She could not think.

"Erik -" she breathed. "No…"

"No?" He began to sneer, eyes fierce and glinting as he watched her closely beneath lowered lids. "Perhaps this will change your mind. There is something else I have concealed from you. The Vicomte de Chagny is here. He has been in Alger for weeks, perhaps months. And I know where."

"Raoul," she breathed. Her mind reeled, a hundred conflicting feelings assailing her all at once.

Erik sighed heavily and looked away, his jaw squared and tight. Christine remained still, her body strangely cold.

She found her voice. "But… you never sent him the letter. How did you know he would come?"

"Do you really think he wouldn't tear the world apart to find you?" His molten gaze was hard and intense, and somehow, accusing. "I would. If it were me. I would."

This was too much to take in. Erik was offering her everything she had wanted -

How could she have wanted _this?_

The thought of him leaving terrified her. She had always thought their paths were inseparable. This could not be happening… Not after everything they had gone through, everything they had done for one another…

He was speaking but Christine could no longer understand the words. All she was aware of was her world being shattered once more, throwing her from a place of brilliant light into hopeless shadow.

She sat dully, trying to take in what he was saying. But there was only the hollow realisation… he was leaving - he was leaving - he was leaving -

She was going to lose him, forever.

Something was brewing inside her. Something wild and unstoppable. His hand warm in hers.

"Thank you…"

_No…_

"For _saving _me -"

Sensation blazed through her numb body. She pulled away from him in a fever. Without realising it, she was on her feet, trembling violently with the force of an emotion she could not name.

"This is no time to make a martyr of yourself, Erik!" she insisted fiercely. "You don't need to prove anything - not after last -" she swallowed hard - "not to me."

His full lips curved disdainfully. "Everything revolves around you, doesn't it, my dear? Perhaps I no longer desire your company. Did that never occur to you, Christine?"

Silence stretched between them. Christine didn't move. How could she have thought that she could no longer be hurt by him? Only he knew such exquisitely cruel ways to wound her. When she spoke, however, her voice was calm and alarmingly steady.

"Did that help - being cruel to me? Does it make it any easier?"

His black eyes flashed. He was standing too, now, his chest heaving violently beneath the silk shirt. The white porcelain mask was a starkly immobile contrast to his blazing expression. She had never seen him so close to losing control.

"You didn't want to be here at all, Christine, remember? I took you against your will!"

"And I _willingly _came with you here!"

Erik laughed madly, his eyes too wild, too wide. "Oh yes, very willingly! After I kidnapped you, manipulated you, lied to you -"

"Why are you saying this?"

"Because it is the truth!"

Tight agony gathering in her chest, her throat. She knew what he was doing, why he was forcing himself into this cruelty, but she would not _let_ him. "The truth?" she demanded. "I will tell you what was the truth. Last night was the truth. Listening to me, comforting me, that was the truth. So no matter how cruel you want to be - no matter how cruel you _try _to be - I will _never_ forget who you are, Erik, however much you might deny it -"

"Don't torture me like this," he growled. "Platitudes won't help and you know it. You knew this could not last, that you would return to reality and still have everything you ever wanted, while _I_..."

Reality. It was the cruellest word she had ever known. If this was reality, she didn't want it. She couldn't live with it.

"No," she said, shaking her head. "No."

"Christine." His low, forceful voice was laced with anger. "Don't fight this -"

But she wasn't listening. A wild madness had seized her and she moved towards him, a shaking hand outstretched, reaching for him. His tense, muscled arm felt like iron beneath her entreating hold. It didn't matter. She was desperate.

"Come back to Paris with me," she insisted. "If you need me, I will always be there for you. We can see each other - if we want it enough, we can do something. I'll talk to Raoul and make him understand… there must be a way, there is _always _a way –"

"You know that's impossible," he said violently.

"Why?" she demanded, hearing her voice break and fracture. Like her heart. "Why is it impossible? Because _you _say it is?"

"_Because it will never be enough!" _he finally shouted. "I _must _and _will _love you. I refuse to linger in Paris to watch your blissful marriage, playing the hypocrite and pretending to be glad for you, while my soul is being crushed under the burden of your union – is _that _how much you care for me, Christine?"

Her chest burned from the force of his words. She bit her lip, guilt and misery tearing at her. "You're right. It was selfish of me. I should never have –"

She could not say any more. Her heart was aching in hopeless pain. She was going to cry again, and she couldn't. If she began to cry now, she would never stop. And she had already shed too many tears over him.

Erik stared at her darkly, his shadowed face set in vindictive, feral lines. "You stay, or you go. And there will be no second chances."

Her voice was shaking. "So you're giving me an ultimatum? Either stay here… or you'll leave? Forever?"

"You can't live a life with both of us."

Christine clung tightly to his heavy shoulders, a choking feeling rising up in her throat. She breathed him in, incense and leather and the memory of night. So painfully familiar, she knew it as well she knew her own name. "But I still want you in my life. That hasn't changed. Never _will _change. And now you're telling me I have to make a choice?"

"You've already made it, Christine! You made that very clear on the night of _Don Juan -_"

She turned white to the lips. "Don't you dare use that against me. Not now. Not after everything we've -"

"So have you changed your mind?"

"But -" she was pleading now - "There must be some way… can we not at least remain friends?"

Erik sneered, his eyes lethal, dark as night. "We were never friends, Christine. Never. And we never will be. Do you think that I would be content with that? What I want from you, I can never have. Your _friendship _isn't enough for me. I love you, that's the truth of it, and I will until I die – or you do." Christine's eyes stung with tears; she swiped at them with her hand. "And you! You have hated me, feared me – God, maybe even pitied me – but don't deceive yourself that you ever felt friendship."

"So what are you saying?" she whispered. "That I won't see you again?"

"How can you?" he responded swiftly, his voice distorting to a snarl.

Christine realised, distantly, that she was crying. "But I can never imagine not having you in my life -"

Erik looked at her. A shadow of compassion passed through his eyes for a moment, but his masked face remained frozen and unmoving.

"Try," he said.

The flat severity of the word made her heart shudder. His expression was rigid and unyielding, but she could not remain so stoic. _This can't be real. This can't be happening. It's too awful. _

She remained still, engulfed in silent desperation. He had torn her life apart, and now he was just going to walk away -

The words broke from her before she could stop them. _"How can you just let me go?"_

"Don't act as though I want this," he hissed. "You know I would have fought heaven and hell to be at your side, if I knew you wanted it -"

"But I _do _care for you, Erik. I don't regret these months - the joy, the pain, not any of this - I will never be sorry -"

Eyes glimmered dangerously behind the mask. "Not good enough."

She looked up at him helplessly. "What more is there?"

Erik had taken everything she had thrown at him so far, but it seemed he had finally reached his breaking point. His chest was heaving violently, fists clenched at his sides. Coal black brows drawn together with rage. The demon awakening at last. "Don't be a fool, Christine."

In a moment he had closed the space between them. She could taste the darkness, the madness lurking just beneath the surface. His face ruthless as an avenging angel, eyes wild with fire. And her courage failed within her, because she knew what he was going to say, but it was her fault, she had driven him to this -

"Tell me you love me."

Christine shivered uncontrollably, though her mind and her heart were burning, burning -

_I…_

She said nothing. Her heart was throbbing in her throat.

"_Say it!"_

Eyes black like glass. Cutting her.

"Erik -"

He snarled. Bitter. Distorted. "So you won't even lie?"

_I…_

"Please." A broken whisper.

She was backing away in a dazed kind of horror; roughly, he grabbed her wrists and pulled her back towards him. She stumbled. The movement was desperate, almost cruel, and the agonised appeal in his eyes was too much to stand. The arid garden receded, there was only this, here, those iron fingers that gripped her so tightly, the harsh breathing against her neck, eyes so black they seemed almost blind -

A harsh whisper. _Say it. _Shaking her violently._ Say it. _

But she couldn't.

She was broken. She was numb. His body was close and warm, burning her alive… but her heart, oh her heart was frozen…

_The last time he'll hold me tightly like this… the last time he'll look at me that unique way, with such anguish and longing, the last time… oh God…_

She stared at him through a hideous, blurring sheen of tears. "How can this be the end?"

"It doesn't have to be." He stared at her, furious and despairing, his eyes darker than she had ever seen them. His rough voice jagged and hoarse against her skin. "You know what you have to say. Just _tell_ me -"

She shook her head blindly. "I _can't_ -"

"No." Those velvet tones were cruel, mocking. "Of course you can't."

She tried to pull away, but couldn't. She could never pull away. Strong hands grasping her too tightly, fingers and nails and fire. Too real, too alive, swallowing her whole. This roaring undertow of feeling dragging her down -

But she met his gaze, because maybe then he could see how this was tearing her apart inside…

His voice was hard and remorseless. "You can't say you hate me, yet you won't say you love me. Then tell me, Christine, what _do _you feel?"

"I don't - I don't _know, _Erik!" she cried finally, no longer able to hold back the hot, angry tears that scalded her cheeks. "I don't know what I feel or what I want! I don't have any answers!" She turned on him accusingly. Desperation made her cruel. "How can you keep playing with my life like this? How can you offer me an ultimatum, threatening me with leaving entirely if I don't say I love you? How is that fair?"

"How is it fair to expect me to wait around for an answer that may never come?" he lashed back in return.

She struggled, pushed at him. His shaking hands tracing her face, her neck, her trembling shoulders... _hold me - release me - never let me go -_

She could feel his heart beating through the thin shirt. Against her fingers, hard and urgent. Her head sank down, dark curls spilling over his chest. So close it hurt… she could not breathe -

"I never wanted this," she whispered. "Not any of it -"

But it wasn't good enough. His grip was unrelenting. Hands hot on her flesh, tangled in her hair. He raised her head. Forcing her to meet his terrible expression. Dark hair fell wildly over his brow, he was breathing hard and furiously. She knew the pain in his eyes, because it was her own. Different, but the same, always the same…

"I want you," Erik whispered savagely against her skin, "I want you so much it drives me mad…" She was lost, blinded, unable to move, unable to think - if he tried to kiss her now, she would surely die -

But he did not kiss her.

Instead, he tentatively took her hands, achingly soft now, and the gentleness was somehow worse than the violence. His voice choked against the wild disorder of her hair. "But more than that, I want your happiness. And you are not happy, Christine. Not here. Not with me. You should not have to remain in the shadows, bound to guilt and ghosts and old lies. You deserve more than darkness."

And with those words, she was gone. Her body slackened in his hold. Frozen by the realisation that this was the last time, the very last... Christine blinked furiously, seeing the world through a translucent veil of tears. She had never felt further away from him in her life. It hurt when he looked at her. It hurt to breathe.

How could he put her in this position?

"Do you know how much I hate this?" she managed to whisper. "How much I hate hurting you?"

His body began shaking, wild spasms of uncontrollable, _terrible _laughter ricocheting through her. "You've done nothing but hurt me. You have had _two years _to make a decision, Christine -"

"It's not that simple! Erik, everything between us is so complicated, and you cannot expect me to just simply decide -"

"Actually, Christine, it's very simple. Either you choose me - or you choose him."

Unthinking, her cold hands clasped his face; he shuddered even as he sought to hold himself determinedly still. "Everything I said last night was true. You know me in a way that no one else does. And I _need _you, Erik, I -"

"The way you need _him?"_

"That is completely different! The way I feel about Raoul, and the way I feel about you are entirely separate - you cannot just demand that I make a choice -"

"I can," he gritted. "And I will."

She clenched her hands together, so tightly that her fingers ached from the pain of it. Lifting her tearstained face to his. "Do you want an answer? Here and now, is that what you want?"

There was a silence. Then, _"Yes," _he said. "Yes, damn it, just tell me."

She pulled herself free of his strangling hold, though she would never be free of him, never, never -

Unthinking words shaped her blanched lips.

_Erik, I…_

But she couldn't say it. She hadn't the strength.

_If you only knew… These things, these feelings do not have a name… I can hardly speak of it… it possesses me, consume me so that I am annihilated in it -_

When she spoke, it seemed to come from outside herself. It could not be her saying these things.

"I… I cannot love you. At least… not in the way you want."

"Cannot or will not?" he flashed.

"You wanted an answer," she said quietly. Suddenly, all the rage and anguish had burnt itself out. She was terribly calm; there was nothing but a great emptiness in her chest. "Now you have it."

Silence fell. It was the most horrible silence she had ever known.

_Erik -_

He had not moved. She wondered if he would ever move again. Christine swallowed hard, raised her head. She would look at him. She would give him that much. No matter how awful it was.

What could _possibly _be worse than this?

She realised just what. Realised as she watched him shatter in front of her. He wasn't so stoic after all.

_I'm sorry -_

But she could not withstand his gaze. How could such deep eyes be so unbearably empty?

Erik turned away. White porcelain reflected the sun. It blinded her. There was a terrible, inhuman sound that might have been a sob. But his face was like stone.

"Pack your things," he said, finally. His voice was a stranger's voice, hollow and deadened. "I'll have a carriage ready in an hour."

And he was gone.

She was standing in the villa garden alone with the hot stones and the sun that burned.

Numbly, Christine sank onto the bench. She was shaking all over, shivering, but her skin was on fire. The coldness came from inside.

Minutes passed. She closed her eyes, held her breath. This could not be happening. But she had known, somehow, that it was always going to happen. Yet she had pushed it away, refused to believe. It had been easy to deny. They had been so long alone, isolated from the world. Left with nothing but each other.

And to think that it would end like this. Her white hands gripped the edges of the bench.

_I don't want to do this. I'm not strong enough to stand it. Help me, please!_

Her heart was aching with tears. She thought of his face when she had said she could not love him. It was the cruellest thing she had ever done. After he had pledged his trust and devotion and belief in her hands.

_Thank you… for _saving _me…_

Images flashed through her mind with a sudden, startling clarity. Erik clutching her fiercely moments ago as she broke his heart once more, his face dark and solemn as he knelt in the holy chapel, the starving loneliness in his candle-lit eyes as they lay side by side only last night…

The weight of his pain was heavier than her own. He had lost everything. And the fault of it was hers. She was agonised by indecision. Was she a support to him or an unbearable weight? Had she only made him suffer?

_I don't know how to do it. I can't live with it. What have I done, Erik? What have I done? Oh God! I can't stop crying. But I can't go on like this. Thinking of it will drive me mad. I must try to forget._

Christine closed her eyes, a dim and unsteady recollection of laughter and clear blue eyes rising from a place very far away. She clung to that remembrance, held it tight and kept it near her heart. A soft grace note to ease the bitterness. Her beloved comforter. She had loved Raoul since she was a girl; her dearest friend, her childhood companion, her ardent suitor. She had dreamed of marrying him for as long as she could remember. It was the one certainty she had clung to when her world was falling apart.

And he was here… he had been searching for her all this time, he had never given up on her…

_I have to believe… believe that the happy ending I wanted still exists. Those years at Perros… they cannot mean nothing. I will not let them mean nothing._

He was the best man she had ever met. And he was offering an escape from this darkness that had haunted her, this terrifying connection that bound her to Erik. The promise of a past life beckoning her in the distance, those cherished memories she had thought lost forever. And if she didn't go, what would she do? Stay_… _with Erik? It was impossible, unthinkable. She loved Raoul desperately, she knew this, yet her senses betrayed her at every moment. She had fallen prey to compassion once before, she could not do so again. But it was no longer compassion that bound her to Erik, it was…

She muttered words senselessly, beside herself. _I want to help you, I have to help you, I need to help you!_

He was supposed to be her demon. He was supposed to be her angel. He had pursued her for years, pursued her across the world… and now he had released her, she did not know what to do, did not know how to live. The sanctity of that precious bond broken, shattered, annihilated. How had she done this the last time?

_Nights frozen at a narrow window while the snows fell and her heart turned to ice…_

Three months and a winter that had lasted lifetimes. Again, she felt herself dying, as though she already lay beneath the cold earth. Memories of a lifetime ago as she pressed her pale hands against the glass and gazed at a world shrouded in snow. And such weariness she had felt inside. _And my soul trapped underground, forced to endure this unbearable loneliness._

There was nothing else, no other way. She would learn to live again. She had survived this before _(barely)._

And now she must do so again.

* * *

Noon, and the sun blazed mercilessly. The rhythmic motion of the carriage wheels sent clouds of sand swirling around the windows, the sheets of burning glass rattling in the narrow frame. Flashes of desert gave way to the crowded proximity of buildings and dust and noise. But Christine saw none of it. Her heart was encased in ice and the outside world could not touch her. She was lost in recollection. Remembering the days when she had lived for those nightly visitations, when Raoul had only been a distant childhood memory. And how she had sang to an angel, sang until her heart would break. Her sorrow given voice on his lips. Sounding in the depths of despair and elevating her to the highest passion. He would endure in her memory forever.

_How many years since first I saw you and dreamed of you… those long nights when our voices in union (always in union, _then_) rivalled those of heaven… oh, that we could have been thus forever…_

That they could have remained suspended as they were last night, poised between states of existence, neither sleeping nor waking, no beginning, no end, only the sensation of infinite _being_. She was no more, yet she was everything. In that space they had been angels, his music coursing through her soul, binding them in holy union. Together, they could have altered the shape of the world.

_Last night I was so happy I might have been in heaven. And now… and _now_…_

They were to be divided, a separation worse than death. She looked across at Erik, dark and forbidding and sullen, his shadowed face hidden from her. _Is this the angel you sent me, father? _she wondered, bleak with misery.

The carriage lurched unevenly from side to side, wheels clattering noisily against the rock-strewn roads. Outside, people were pressed together in a mass of bodies, all engaged in buying and selling and bartering, the uncomplicated business of the day. Erik envied them all. His mind sharpened by grief, he gazed out through the lingering haze of dust, the tiny particles of sand stinging his wind-burned eyes and whipping through his coarse hair. The crowded market blurred before him. He was clutching the window frame as though it were the one thing tethering him to reality. This, the sun-browned leather swaying beneath him, and the throbbing pain in his heart.

His entire being was aching. Lost in a grief that was bitter and deep. Without her, he would die.

To be born again into an existence where their paths had never crossed! But no, even that he could not imagine now. To forget, then, those tormented recollections that pierced his dreams -

_If I cannot have her, then at least let me forget her! Let me no longer remember her or any of those memories that dared me to hope - hope! I thought, I wished, I deluded myself into thinking perhaps - but it could never be._

Not many minutes now remained. Every second that elapsed was a precious moment wasted, yet still neither spoke. He felt despair as though he'd been cast from heaven. And still he could not help but want to keep her here. She was a dream he had dreamed and lost. Now he was to be reduced to grasping at her in shadows and memories. The blazing brightness of desert turned to a darkened void. And his soul in the wilderness while she returned to a world that constricted her too tightly. A caged bird beating its wings against the bars. _Yet she _chose_ this._ _Even this she would choose over me._

But those words - those words she would not say. _And if it were true, she would say them. But she does not say them, and so she must not. _She would go, making herself a wilful prisoner once more. She would return to that fool's paradise while _he -_

_With you I am omnipotent… these past months have been a glimpse of paradise._ That small space he had hollowed out on the edge of the earth had become his entire world and now it was to be torn from him once more, for he could not remain there only to be tortured by memories of _her _in every shadow. Buried in his wounds as her blindly devoted husband lavished her with trinkets and hollow fineries. It was a bitter consolation.

There was a heave, a great shuddering motion, the clatter of wheels on dust and stone juddering to an unsteady halt. The horses stopping with a savage jerk. Through the narrow window, the market was swarming with people, buyers and sellers and traders and merchants, oblivious to the scorching heat. And beyond the dizzying blur of colour and noise, past the canvas-covered stalls and heavy scents of spice and horse leather, and the faint breeze blowing in from the sea, the building, its windows shuttered against the glare of midday sun, stood in shadow.

They were here. This moment he had been dreading. He turned to Christine, but the words dried to ash in his throat. He had to say something.

But he didn't need to. She knew. She knew.

He opened the door, and the sun streamed in, illuminating the carriage interior, white hot and blinding. Falling on Christine's pallid and terrible face as she sat rigid and silent. Erik froze in the doorway, hesitating. Inner voices clamouring in his head. _You damned, proud fool! Apologise and she'll forgive you! Even now it's not too late. She would come back with you if you asked. _But he wouldn't. He was tired of prostrating himself before her. If nothing else, he would have his pride. He would not have her last memory of him be that of a prostrating wretch. He would endure, resolute and gaspingly. Grimly, he stepped outside into the blazing afternoon.

Christine stared after him. _Say something. He wants you to stay._

But she was numb.

She stepped out the carriage with icy hands and white lips and a heart that felt turned to stone. Her soul seemed somewhere far away. Crowds of people were pushing past her in a sea of ceaseless, unending, monotonous noise. It made her head swim with sickness. It took every effort not to faint.

She took a trembling step forward. Another. Erik, cold and untouchable at her side. She followed the line of his hard gaze to the dilapidated boarding house almost lost amid a maze of alleys branching from its door. And Raoul was within. It meant nothing. She could not even comprehend it.

Beside her, Erik could sense every beat of her heart, every shuddering breath she drew. Every glimpse - every gesture - every moment -

he _must _remember -

His cold heart seemed to have stopped beating in his chest. This was really happening… time seemed to move too fast, the world that turned beneath his feet drawing inevitably towards annihilation.

A thousand memories returned to him in a blinding rush. Each one compelled him to speak. But he could not. He could not.

Those dark eyes sharp with betrayal, soft with vulnerability. Looking up at him blindly. "So this is goodbye?"

"I suppose it is." His voice were cold.

Still Christine lingered, her tearful gaze entreating. Was it really going to end like this? How could she bear it, this awful finality?

She wanted to tear the mask from his face. She wanted to see him, all of him -

"Erik -"

She had to speak, had to say _something, _but his coldness stilled her. If she had glimpsed a flash of tenderness, a hint of emotion, she might have spoken. But there was nothing. He was as remote and dead as that spectre that had haunted the cellars of the Opera. If he had begged her then, she would have stayed right where she was.

She stole a breath. The light burned her eyes. Erik remained still, a shadow against the sun, a shadow against the world.

At last, she found the words.

"Goodbye, Erik."

And Christine walked away.

She passed unseeingly through the crowds of people, aware of nothing but the house before her, growing larger and larger as she drew closer. The masses of people ebbed and surged, severing her from the view of the waiting carriage, from Erik who stood motionless, watching her with blazing eyes. But she did not know this because she did not look back. Nothing but the sun hot on her skin, her moving through meaningless space. This was her. A heart that beat, hands that had clasped him. She didn't feel anything. She would never feel anything again. The shadow of the building fell across her. Time blurred as she stood before the door.

She raised a hand and knocked three times on the sun-bleached wood.

The door opened.

"Raoul," she said.


End file.
